


Reset

by Allheroeswearhats



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: AU, Action/Adventure, Arthur is putting up with none of his bullshit, Caring, Crime, Drama, Eventual Romance, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mystery, Paranoia, Rebirth, Slow Build, Suspense, francis is a crabby old bastard, mentions of gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-02-10 10:25:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 65,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2021463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allheroeswearhats/pseuds/Allheroeswearhats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nightmares have plagued Francis for as long as he could remember, but it’s only now that he’s realising they may be more real than he thought. A small, dirty old briefcase and a suspicious Englishman are about to blow apart everything he knew to be true, and place him in more danger than he could imagine. Life is a story, and not all have pleasant endings.  (Nation reborn as human, gore warning).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Panic locks you in

Reset

_There's a man who speaks to him with a deep voice, though the words are lost to him. He holds something in his hands, a shape of colour but it's too dark to make anything out. Then there's tension, palpable and thick in the air, which covers the setting like a heavy blanket. He answers the man and the tension grows._

_There's a glint._

_Then a bang._

_Everything fades to black and he wakes up screaming._

* * *

Francis frowned in discomfort at the light hitting the outside of his eyelids. He had been dozing contently, but now that he was fully awake he noticed all of the discomfort that sleeping in one position for too many hours on old bones brings. Shifting restlessly under the blankets he tried to shuffle in an attempt to ease away the ache in his back, but no luck. The mattress wasn't as soft as it looked and his bones were no longer protected by youthful muscle and fat as they once were; young long and finely toned limbs were now thin sticks covered in ghastly see through parchment-like skin and disguised as legs and arms. It felt like he was lying on a very unforgiving slab of stone. Being not as strong as he was, an occasional turn is all his could manage without his arms giving out and that wasn't enough to ease the pain away. Damn them to hell, he'd rather break his arms than suffer from bed sores.

He teased open his eyes and squinted tiredly at the brightness in the room. Once again, he didn't sleep much last night. He could see the light filtering in through the window at the opposite end of the room and despite his slightly failing eyesight he could still see all of the things in his room relatively clearly, although the details were beginning to elude him. His knick-knacks were scattered about the few surfaces he had, stopping just short of making the place feel too cluttered but giving the rather drab furniture a rather homely feel.

Noticing the colour of the light he guessed that he'd probably woken up far earlier than he needed to, again, because once again that damn window let the sun in through those permanently gappy curtains that no one would change, no matter who he asked or how much he pleaded. The orderlies also wouldn't move his bed around to a different part of the room; because this cannot be excused away by excuses of a 'low budget' Francis thought privately that perhaps they just enjoyed having him suffer as a sick form of entertainment.

He sighed and resigned himself to another long, uncomfortable morning in bed. What he would not resign to, however, was having that sun directly in his eyes and so he shuffled as much as he could to the edge of the bed, to where the sun didn't actively hit him in the face. Closing his eyes he tried to go back to sleep, or a least doze _please_ , and so took a deep breath in and thought about his life to try and let his mind wander. He didn't mind his currently situation overly much, if he were to be honest. He'd lived a good, long life and he was satisfied with everything he had done in it.

The home he now lived in wasn't that bad, not really. This was a care home, not a hospice; this wasn't a place to die, but a place to await for what's coming and be helped along the way. Francis still had his mind, he can still walk and talk and therefore he was here as a 'just in case'. Although his body was definitely becoming weaker quicker than he'd like he wasn't yet immobile, nor completely reliant on his carers, and so could still enjoy what independence he still had to the fullest. He hated being dependant on others; for as long as Francis could remember he'd always done things his own way when and how he wanted, so having carers hoist him up, help him wash and sometimes even feed him on bad days was more frustrating than he could express. His body may be going but his mind certainly wasn't and nor were his memories of who he was, whom he still felt, _knew_ , himself to be.

Despite his reluctance to surrender his old life of living by his own rules, he knew that he was better off here, rather than facing this whole terrible business alone.

He didn't mind his carers either. Some were a little short with him for being slow at certain things when they must _know_ that it wasn't his fault, but for the most part he got on with the majority of them. The ones he got along with the most, happily or coincidentally for him, are women or men who were quite young, with vigour and haleness expressed through cheery grins and chirped conversations and who allowed him to tease them and put up with his off-hand flirty comments. Well, most of them.

The next thing he realised was the door opening and one of his carers whom he most definitely did _not_ get along with came striding in.

'Good morning, Francis, how are you feeling.' Arthur did not ask this; rather he threw the question at Francis as he came past to open the terrible floral curtains covering the window, without waiting for an answer. Francis has heard that Arthur was actually extremely nice and considerate to all of the other residents, knocking before entering and everything, but he had yet to see even a shred of proof of this when it comes to his behaviour towards him.

'Terrible, seeing as it is you who are ungraciously invading my room this early in the morning.' Is what he wanted to say, but recently he had been finding it harder to take the long, deep breaths necessary for such a long and quick fire sentence when laying down, so instead, he settled for the far more manageable; 'Terrible, now that you're here.' Alas, not the venom he wanted to show, but it did its job as Arthur span around, thick eyebrows pulled into an ugly scowl.

'Well, I see someone is feeling happy today.' Arthur's French was softly littered with glass cut English vowels replacing the formally lovely, soft French ones and it grated upon Francis' ears to hear such abuse of the language he loved so much. It was far too early for his day to be marred with this _heathen_.

'I would be happier if you would speak French without your crass tones slathered all about your words.' He forced out slowly, a deep breath and a slight pause halfway through. He shifted a little upwards in an attempt to see and breathe better. Arthur noticed quickly and made his way over to press the remote on the side of Francis' bed, raising the back slowly so that Francis can sit up and breathe better. ' _Would you prefer I speak English?_ ' He offered in his native language with a smirk that grew at Francis' glare. Francis loathed anything English, though he didn't really have a reason as to why. One of his favourite pastimes of yesteryears was to answer in rapid fire, perfect French, spoken quicker than he ever would normally, to any English speaker whom dared stop and ask him for help in Paris. He loved the satisfied feeling of the growing frustration of the English speakers, revelled in the knowledge that in a foreign land they were trapped in the confines their one mother tongue shackled them with. It irked him most now that he was on the receiving end; Arthur could speak both languages fluently and would often subject him to the vulgarity of English either by insulting Francis or to answer his often far too probing questions he didn't really wish to answer in the said tongue.

'Must you be so vile?' Francis held his breath as Arthur's cool hands slid under his arms to gently hoist him into a more comfortable position.

'But of course.' Arthur answered silkily, thankfully back in French. 'Having someone who isn't constantly stoking your ego can be good for you.'

'Ah my love, just because you don't have anyone stoking yours, doesn't mean you should deflate an old man's.'

Arthur gave a small laugh. 'Admitted you're old, finally?'

Francis gave a perfect Parisian shrug. 'I think hitting 89 does give me reason to entertain the notion of no longer being young.'

Arthur made a non-committal sound but didn't offer a response, choosing instead to check his clipboard he'd previously discarded on Francis' dresser top when he went to open the curtains. 'Did you sleep well?'

'As well as can be.'

'Not much then?'

'Not really.' Francis watched as Arthur made a little note on his paper. Arthur was one carer Francis made no point in give out white lies to, there was no unpleasant truth buttering when it came to him. Although Arthur wasn't someone Francis would go out of his way to talk to, Arthur was one of the only ones whom answered him with as much bite as Francis himself gave with his words. One of the only ones, aside from the other residents, who didn't mollycoddle him like a child and he appreciated it.

'I'll ask Julia if it's worth trying you with some sleeping pills, a different type though; this is becoming more and more common lately.'

Francis's face gave a nervous twitch and he gave a scoff to cover it before he remarked drily, 'You think I haven't noticed?' Ignoring Arthur's exasperated sigh through his nose, Francis sat up a bit higher and stretched his arms in front of him. Breathing was a lot easier now that his own weight wasn't squashing the air from his lungs. 'When are you actually going to do your job and get me up and ready for breakfast; I'm hungry.'

* * *

The nursing home was located in the province of Aunis on the West of France, in the town of Fouras. It was near the coast and not too far from farms and stretches of light green fields on the other side, with plenty of fresh air and quiet. It was sparsely decorated inside; light crème walls and pale blue carpets, a dusting of paintings scattered about the walls with the odd ornament dotted about here and there on small corner tables. Medical equipment was stored in specially adapted rooms; though whether this was to conceal them from visitors or to shield the patients was debatable.

It was quite open plan, large archways instead of spindly doors and open common areas rather than twisty narrow corridors. All buildings and rooms were on just a ground floor with a flat, large parcels of land serving as the grounds next to a small suburban neighbourhood. This allowed the residents, who could, to wander about the grounds and even outside the estate for day trips with family or by themselves if they wished to and were deemed medically capable. Residents that couldn't walk as well but wanted to were often taken out for walks with a carer. There were often trips planned too, like outings to the countryside for a picnic, or to the seaside, or sometimes even just out for a drive about the streets. The aim was to not allow residents to become disconnected from the world, to do as much as they could whilst they were still able to. There was a schedule for dinners, washing, medicine, and sleeping, but for the most part the people who lived there were allowed to spend their time pretty much how they wanted.

Francis was one of the residents whom still had quite a bit of freedom left. Although he couldn't get up on his own, (or get down again well, for that matter) and was a lot slower than he used to be, once he was up he was extremely mobile and was beginning to create a name for himself in the art of running off. Resenting the rule of having to always have someone know where he was, he was prone to just wandering off to go on a walk to visit a friend in another room which caused frantic staff to dash about desperately looking for him once they'd realised he'd yet again slipped away from one of them.

That particular morning, Francis had taken it upon himself to walk down to visit a bench in one of his favourite spots on the outer reaches of the grounds, down a small public footpath and sheltered by a small glade of woods that opened into a forest. It was a bright and sunny day, the kind of weather that made you want to sit about and laze in the sun, so he had hoped that he wouldn't be missed for a while.

'You absolute arse!'

Ah, never mind. 'Hello Arthur, what brings you this way?'

Arthur said some things under his breath, which were probably not very nice and directed towards him, in English. 'What on earth are you doing out here?' He'd stomped to stand in front of Francis now and was panting lightly, a sign that he'd jogged the last few feet after spotting him.

Francis looked up to meet his eyes, squinting against the sun. 'A mere walk, my dear, am I not even allowed that now?' he offered towards the angry, Arthur shaped silhouette. Arthur looked like he was swallowing back some choice words, judging by the pinched, hard line his lips were forced into before speaking again.

'You are _allowed,_ Francis, but you know you _have_ to let someone know where you're going. If something happened to you there's no way we'd know to help you, especially this far out.'

'You, of all people, unfortunately found me.'

'Francis, you kno-'

'Yes, yes.' Francis waved away Arthur's lecture with one hand and patted the seat beside him with the other. 'Come, sit down a bit. You're here, you've found me, and I'm safe, so now you may as well sit down before you give yourself heart palpitations.'

Arthur gave him a hard stare, as if judging whether it was worth continuing scolding someone who obviously wasn't going to pay any heed to his or anyone else's advice on the matter. After a few seconds he conceded and flopped down next to the older man, leaning heavily against the bench and allowing Francis to see him better. He had his eyes shut and looked flushed, though from the heat or the run in the heat Francis couldn't be sure, but at least he didn't look as if he was going to start telling him off anytime soon.

'I'm not foolish Arthur, I never leave the grounds and I never go anywhere unless I am sure I am up for it. I am not unaware of the dangers and nor have I lost all shreds of my common sense.' He spoke in a flat, almost despondent voice, like he'd given this explanation for his actions many a time before to many a different carer.

Arthur pitied all of them. He'd not even worked here for that long and he was coming close to the end of his tether half the time. He gave a small sigh but then quickly snapped open his eyes, though didn't look at Francis. He gave an intense look into a bush off to the left of where they sat as though he'd heard something and stared for a while before sliding his eyes ahead. 'That's fine, but for our own piece of mind, just please let us know something. At the very least, the direction you're going in and how long you're expecting to be. That's a fair compromise, isn't it?' Arthur turned to look at him and fixed him with a tired gaze.

'I know you enjoy your independence,' he started delicately, 'but at this rate you're not going to be allowed out without someone firmly attached to your side and I know you'll consider that to be a lot worse.'

'I'm not yet used to all this.' Francis waved his hand absently in the direction of the home behind them. 'Three years, and I still miss being able to just go and do whatever whenever. You'd think by now-' He gave a hollow laugh. 'You don't understand how grating this is. To be watched and tracked all day every day; how _frustrating_ it is. I hope you never do.'

He turned back to his companion and was slightly surprised; he looked as though he was smothering down an expression of some sort that Francis couldn't put a name to, his eyes seemed sad and the lips drawn together harshly, but whatever it was, was replaced by Arthur's usual apathetic, unruffled stare so quickly that Francis was sure he imagined that there was anything else ever there at all.

'Well, I dare say I've got a few years left. Come on, that's surely enough rough rambling to satisfy you for a while, we've got to head back for lunch.' He stood in one easy swift movement, noticing Francis' look of undisguised disgust at his ease and then helped Francis to his feet, allowing him get going and walk ahead of him slightly back up the path that would wind them on towards the home. He waited a bit to make sure that Francis was out of earshot and then stood still and gave one last quick look back behind them, listening for something carefully. After a moment's pause and seemingly deducing that there was nothing there, he quickly walked to catch up with his charge.

* * *

Dinner time was Francis' favourite time of the day, however less so for any staff member given responsibility for that day's meal. Residents of his building were encouraged to continue to cook lunches or small snacks for themselves with help during the day if they wanted something different from that which was offered, but dinners were all eaten as a single dish that the home shared to ease the trouble of making multiple different meals that suited the medical requirements of all. Francis wasn't too fond of not cooking or even helping, so liked to pop in and watch quietly.

Watching quietly often turned into 'helpfully assisting'.

'You need to turn them over now. That's it, see they're almost perfect! Now add the seasoning. No no, not that one; can't you see that now they're sticking to the pan?'

The person whom he was addressing was a portly, middle aged woman called Louisa with ruddy cheeks caused by a short temper and wispy brown hair bundled up into a hairnet. There were two head chefs employed at the care home and they shared the responsibly of meal planning and cooking throughout the week so as to add variety and to share the burden of planning medical needs, as well as taste. Louisa was not someone whom Francis got along with very well.

'Mr Bonnefoy.' She responded curtly, spinning around face him and pointed a spatula threateningly at his face. 'If you do not leave this area _immediately_ I will be forced to call the head nurse and have you forevermore banned from this kitchen.'

Francis tired to interrupt but she cut him off. 'No excuses! I don't care what you do when Belle is here and I don't care if she allows this nonsense but I will not. I can cook, I am aware of how to cook well, and I do _not_ need you poking your nose in and telling me how to do my job.'

'Now,' she put down the spatula and took the meat off the heat. 'This is not a five star restaurant and you are no longer the head chef of one. If the food is not done to your exact standards then please by all means complain as I will happily not be listening.' She waved one of the assistant cooks over who was chatting to a nurse in the corridor. 'Please get Amélie to take Mr Bonnefoy to the living room, I've got a meal to attempt to cook and it'll go a lot better without any interference.' With one last shrewd look she shooed him away from the countertop with her hand and towards the door.

The nurse in question was a rather timid looking girl whom Francis hadn't seen before; upon approaching his side she took his arm, patting it in a way he assumed she meant to be a friendly manner. 'Come on Mr Bonnefoy, let's get you to the living room, yes? I'm sure you'd much rather enjoy yourself in there where you can watch television or talk with the others.'

Although annoyed by the way the lady was talking to him, as if he had the brains of a small, stupid child, Francis nevertheless hooked her arm in his and lead her towards the door. 'I'd much rather get to know you, my darling. After all, we've not had any new staff in a while and I'm sure I would have noticed someone as beautiful as you breezing through these halls if you'd worked here for long.'

She allowed a small smile and a quiet giggle. 'I've been warned about you, sir.'

'Francis, please.' He offered, leading her now out of the kitchen area, past other residents lumbering along in their own pace to gather and watch T.V before eating. 'When did you start?'

'Oh, not too long ago. This is my first full day though I've been doing odd shifts here and there to get used to things. I'm Amélie; it's lovely to meet you.'

Francis grinned at her easily. 'Likewise. Now, where do you come from? Tell me all about yourself.'

* * *

'Right, first we have to get him changed, so you'll need to get his nightclothes out of a bed for him.'

Arthur was putting Francis to bed tonight, and it seemed poor Amélie was being subjected to his _gentle_ tutorage.

'Er- w- where are they?'

'Open the wardrobe, normally all of the residents' are kept on the second drawer down on the right hand side.'

With a quick nod she scurried across the room, leaving her corner to retrieve the clothes where it looked like she'd tried to take refuge from the blunt instructions Arthur was giving as he prepared Francis' bed.

'All carers have two key residents and another two whom they share with another carer, so there's a ratio of 2 carers to four patients, I'm sure you'll no doubt be assigned yours soon. You'll be the first point of call for your two key patients should you be needed and second for the other two; you will compare notes and concerns with your partner carer about all patients in your care and it's your job to make sure all four residents between you are happy.'

'I'm not happy.' Francis offered helpfully from his spot on the chair.

'Shut up.' Amélie looked shocked at the exchange but Arthur continued as if there wasn't an interruption. 'Now, obviously you don't stay with these residents all day and you're expected to interact and talk to all residents in your building, but it's your two residents you manage medicine for alone, help into and out of bed, help them wash if it's needed, make sure they eat, and generally help them with whatever they need.' Arthur finished and stood with his arms crossed.

'Any patient that needs lifting or medical injections requires the presence of your partner carer, so you'll have to work out a rota between you both as to when you're both available to help patients that need more care together. Some days, however, you'll just have to use whoever is free, so please don't attempt anything that you're unsure of on your own. Any problems and you talk to the head carer, Julia. Do you understand everything?'

Amélie clutched the bedclothes with something which looked akin to fear on her face, eyes wide and unsureness rolling off her in waves. 'Yes, I think so.'

Arthur gave a sharp nod and moved towards Francis. 'Okay then, would you like to get Francis ready? He's quite easy as he doesn't need lifting but I'll be here if you need anything.'

'Are you finished talking to me as though I'm not in the room?'

Arthur hmm'd and had the gall to appear to consider it. 'Probably for now, but you never know.'

Amélie made her way over and started to undress him. Francis smiled and opened his mouth but Arthur, the demon, coughed. 'Don't even think about making any sort of comment, you, I know that face.'

Francis sneered at him. 'You're just jealous that I don't treat you kindly anymore.'

Arthur laughed. 'You wish, frog.'

'You know, you're insulting an entire building by saying that, do you forget which country you're in, rosbif?'

Arthur sniffed. 'Hardly, god damn awful food plus there's you here as well. I can't be anywhere else can I?'

'You could always piss off and scurry back to your shitty island, you know; I'm sure no one asked you to be here.'

Arthur looked shocked, and belatedly Francis realised that was far too harsh and personal. The impending awkward silence was broken swiftly by Amélie, who straightened up and clapped her hands. 'All finished. Now Francis, let's get you into bed.'

As Amélie guided and settled him down, Arthur walked across to the sink on the left hand side of the room, near the wardrobe, and filled up a glass of cold water. Walking back again, he set it down on a bedside table and reached inside his pocket on his pale blue uniform shirt and pulled out a packet of pills. 'I told Julia what you mentioned this morning about sleeping and she thought we could try you out on these ones for a spell. If they work and you get a better night's rest without any...problems, we'll start reducing them and hopefully sort out the issue. You may not be sleeping because it's become a pattern, so hopefully this'll break it.'

'And if it doesn't?'

Arthur popped a pill out and handed Francis it and the glass. 'Then we'll have to get a doctor in and see if there's another drug you've not recently tried, or anything non-medicinal that can be done first. We'll work on things from there.'

Francis took the pro-offered pill and stared at it warily before swallowed it with the aid of the water. He shuddered, 'I swear they get larger the more infirm you get.'

Amélie patted his hand soothingly. 'It's perfectly normal to not like change Francis.'

Francis raised an eyebrow and shared a look with Arthur, who looked as though he also disapproved of this condescending behaviour. 'Yes, well. I've got my other resident to settle in and Mrs Dubois takes a little while longer.' He glanced over at Amélie who was still standing by the bedside and gave her a small smile. 'Well done at settling him in, is this your first nightshift as well?'

She nodded. 'Thank you for showing me the ropes.'

Arthur looked distinctly uncomfortable. 'Er, of course, no problem. It's just my job to. Luckily the patients in this building aren't a high risk so you won't need to check on them much, but a quick one is usually done at three am which you need to make a note of.' He gave her a warm smile and then looked down at Francis, face blank once more. 'I'll leave Amélie to lower you down when you're ready, Mr Bonnefoy; do you need anything else tonight?'

Startled by the formal address, Francis answered, 'Nothing at all, but may I talk to you alone for a bit?' He glanced over at Amélie, 'I'll only be a little while, and then you can finish up.' He winked at her when she nodded, causing her to giggle at him as she left the room.

'Is anything the matter?'

His eyes slid from the door to meet Arthur's green gaze. 'I just... wanted to apologise for what I said earlier. It was uncalled for.'

Whatever Arthur was expecting, it certainly wasn't that. 'What?' He looked terribly confused. 'No, I'm sorry Mr. Bonnefoy, I've been speaking to you far too informally; that's certainly not the way to treat a person I haven't known all that long, especially one in my care and I can promise that it won't happen again. I hadn't realised I'd let myself slip that much.'

'Please,' Francis looked at him deploringly, 'you're one of the only ones here who doesn't talk to me like I'm fast becoming a brain dead vegetable. I know I'm not all that quick and I'm not as strong as I was, but that's no reason to talk to me like a child.'

If Arthur had looked uncomfortable before, it was nothing to what he looked like now. He averted his eyes and coughed awkwardly. 'If that's-' he was cut off by Francis chuckling. 'Wha- what now?'

'Do you know, I don't I've ever had the pleasure of meeting someone as socially awkward as yourself.'

Arthur turned red. 'You arse!' Poking him on the side of the head, he answered, 'I may be socially awkward, but at least I'm not going bald.'

This elicited a gasp of horror. 'How dare you! Of all the things to say to me! And I am not going bald you bushy browed swine! I'd like to see you even try to look this good at my age!'

Arthur just smirked at him and turned to the door. 'See you tomorrow, old man.'

He opened the door and Amélie looked in. 'You can come in now.' He said, though not unkindly. He was about to leave, but stopped suddenly and checked his clipboard frowning. 'Actually, if you don't mind I'll stay for a bit; probably wise to see if the new pills actually take effect like they should.'

She nodded and moved into the room. 'Sure.'

He inclined his head towards her to speak to her softly. 'Do you mind just talking to him while you get him down; sleeping pills have never been his good point.'

Francis was starting to look a little wary at this point, but visibly brightened when she came closer. Picking up the remote, she lowered him gently downwards and helped him adjust. 'You have a lot of interesting knick-knacks here, Francis.'

He scoffed at her. 'Nothing much, I can assure you. You should have seen my old house; it was _teeming_ with the most beautiful things, as well as my old paintings of course.'

'You used to paint? I thought you were a chef?'

Francis gave a soft smile. 'Ah, I was. I painted in my spare time.' He paused for breath, feeling the effects of laying down settle on his lungs. 'My wife had a little art shop and I use to sell some things in there, but mostly it was just a hobby.'

'Your wife?' she started.

'She died 13 years ago.'

'Oh, I'm so sorry.'

'Please, don't be. Marie was a wonderful woman who died peacefully surrounded by family; we both could not ask for anything better.'

She gave him a sad smile and looked about the room. 'Is that what you used to keep your art supplies in then?' She looked over at a battered briefcase, sitting forlorn and hidden in the right hand corner, underneath the T.V and by the bookshelf. It was a greyish brown and must have been quiet clean once, but age had battered the light leather covering and had softened the edges. There were a few splodges on the outer casing and a grimy old lock gleamed from the top.

Arthur glanced up.

Francis gave her a cheeky grin. 'I'll tell you something, little one, I don't actually know what's in that case.'

'You don't?' She asked, confused.

'No, not at all.' He took a deep breath as he tried to fight off the drowsiness that he could feel start to creep up on him. 'I moved out of my parents' house when I was 23 and settled into a small place by the coast, in a small town near here.' Deep breath in. 'The house was quiet old but perfect. I met my wife and we had decided that she should move in with me so we could start up a life together.'

He was starting to blink more intensely now, fighting off the effects of the narcotic. 'I had to clean out a few things to make room, but wished to keep some so I went into the loft to store them. It was so cluttered that I ended up rearranging that about too.' The sentences were becoming very drawn out now, slow and heavy with sleep. 'I found it up there, tucked away under some boxes. It looked interesting so I tried to open it, of course, but couldn't. Firmly shut. Haven't been able to open it.'

He had finally closed his eyes and his breathing was starting to even out, but Amélie nudged him awake again. 'Why didn't you throw it away? Why keep it with you? What's so important about it?'

'Amélie...' Arthur spoke up quietly from the side. 'Let him sleep...'

'Why?' She ignored him and questioned Francis again, more vehemently this time, trying in a manner which could be labelled as desperate in order to make him finish.

'I don't know.' Francis mumbled drowsily, eyes still shut. 'It had a pull on me; no matter... what I did I couldn't... throw...'

She made a move, as if to nudge him again but Arthur stepped forward and caught her hand in his own. 'What are you doing?' he whispered angrily in her ear. 'I said talk to him to keep him occupied, not interrogate the poor man!'

She stood, pulled her hand back, but wouldn't look at him. 'I was interested... it's not hurting anyone for him to answer and I was just curious.'

Her eyes darted back over to the case in the corner and she rapidly looked away again, looking conflicted. 'It's strange, don't you think? There must be something important to him in there.'

With that, she walked quickly out.

* * *

Francis didn't have very pleasant dreams that night.

He dreamt he was in a large room which was empty apart from himself and one other person. The dream was darkened, but he knew there to be large, brilliant windows which lined the room and beautiful statues and old damask chairs beside windowsills, with painting in ornate gilded frames hung from the walls. In the dream it was dark, so oh so dark, and so very cold.

The person he was with spoke something, but the sounds were muted and didn't register. He responded in the same manner, laughing.

The man held out a thing he'd been carrying, but it blended in with the swirling colours of his suit and didn't register as anything recognisable. Just a lumpy shape. He passed it to Francis and he held its heavy weight carefully.

Although he knew it to be heavy, it had no texture nor did he have any sensations of holding it.

There was another, slow this time, flurry of sound from the other man; the conversation tone had changed.

He responded in kind, but with a touch of confusion.

Anger, sudden thick, intense anger. That's all he could sense, that's all that mattered. Something had gone wrong, so very very wrong, and he tried to think quickly, tried to bring the conversation back to what it was like in the beginning but through the swirling of noise and colours Francis had no idea of what was going on, nor what he was supposed to do. A loud voice, a shiny thing, him throwing the lumpy thing away and then a sudden bang.

He awoke screaming, a pain like a fire burning in his chest and spreading rapidly across to the other side, smothering him in an inescapable pain. His lungs were constricting and he was finding it so hard to breathe, his shirt collar felt like it was choking him; it took everything he had to reach out and press the emergency button, blindly and widely groping about in the dark until his fingers hit the buzzer.

He didn't hear the door to his room bursting open, nor did he know how many people were in the room, but he could feel cool hands prying away the one hand he had clenched in his night shirt and then opening his top shirt buttons, as well as a calm voice talking to him, telling him to breathe deeply and just calm down, he was going to be fine.

The hand that was extracted from his chest waved widely for a bit and then gripped onto the nearest solid mass, which happened to be an arm, tightly whilst the other reached up towards his face. He registered that he was crying, tears were sliding unabated down his cheeks and settling in the hollows and ridges of his neck and clumsily tried to wipe them away.

After a few seconds the pain had receded slightly; he could hear better and became aware that what sounded like wheezy and drawn out sobs were actually coming from him. The rest of the room was silent, save from what he now realised was just his crying and the voice of Arthur talking to him.

'You're alright Francis, take a deep breath in and then out again. Come on.'

Francis tried to do as he was told but he ended up producing a deep but quick breath in and a choked sob out.

'That's it, well done. Try again. Can you open your eyes?'

He forced them open but shut them again quickly as the tears around his eyes made him blink rapidly. He felt a tissue being pressed into his hands and he gratefully wiped his face, breathing slowly evening out as each second passed and the burning pain in his chest dissipated. He finally opened his eyes fully, and saw Arthur, face as blank as usual, bent across the right side of his bed and leaning over him, right arm being clenched in Francis' own vice like grip and the left holding a box of tissues. He gently placed them down on Francis' leg and said, 'I'm going to check the pulse on your neck now, okay?'

Still unable to speak, he simply nodded in a single jerky movement and then flinched back slightly at the sensation of cool fingers on far too clammy skin. He absentmindedly wondered if having such cold hands all of the time was healthy. As Arthur was taking his pulse, Francis noticed other carers that were on the nightshift awkwardly crowded around the room and looking very unsure of themselves. Arthur looked over at one and gave her Francis' heart rate before looking back at him. 'I'm going to raise you up so that you can breathe better, alright? Squeeze harder on my arm if I'm going too fast.'

He pressed the button and the small churning noises of the electric mechanics underneath him gave Francis brief warning before he was raised slowly upwards so that now he was sitting at a gentle incline. He took at deep breath, easier now due to lack of constricting pressure and a loose collar and opened his eyes properly. Asides from Arthur and himself, there were four other carers in the room, including Amelie. All were standing about the bed and room but had formed a wide berth around Arthur.

'Are you feeling okay now?' Arthur drew his attention back again, and to the hand he still had clamped to Arthur's forearm which he promptly, upon realising what he was doing, released.

'Yes.' He was ashamed at the pitiful croak he produced.

An uncomfortable silence descended upon the room.

'We'll leave you alone for a bit with Arthur, okay Mr Bonnefoy? Come on everyone.' Another male carer, by the name of Jean, started to shepherd everyone else towards the door and before long the room was empty and peacefully quiet again, broken only by the occasional hiccoughing breath from Francis.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the footsteps of the other retreating down the corridor before Arthur broke it. 'Did your chest hurt again this time?'

Francis nodded but offered nothing else; the silence returned.

'It was clearer this time.'

Arthur started a bit; he was just starting to relax, but recovered face quickly. 'Oh?'

Francis nodded but wouldn't look at him. 'There was definitely another man with me, he passed me something but then he suddenly got angry at something I said, though I couldn't hear anything that was going on. Then he shot me.'

'He shot you? Are you sure?'

'I could see a flash of what must have been metal and then a bang. It also felt like I'd been shot.'

Arthur worried his lip. 'You can't know what being shot fee-'

'I know what it felt like!' Francis protested vehemently, 'I know...I've just always...' He broke off and clutched at his chest again looking pained. 'I can't explain it but I know what being shot feels like and I _know_ that's what happened. I want to say it's the same as other times, but like you helpfully pointed out, I've not been shot before.'

Arthur said nothing and continued observing him. Francis turned to look at him with scared eyes. 'Why do I always dream the same thing as soon as I take any form of narcotic? That's not _normal,_ it's never been normal!'

'Calm down.' Arthur snapped, unnerved by the sudden out of character behaviour from his patient. 'Just calm down for a second, you're over thinking things.'

Francis shook his head despondently, silver hair falling loose from his hair band. 'Listen,' Arthur began, leaning forward again, 'when we're asleep, our brain sorts through what we've been through in dreams to help understand things, but it doesn't necessarily use memories to do this. Maybe when you take sleeping pills your brain just gets a bit more creative as it experiences a reaction to the drugs; maybe that's just the way your brain deals with chemicals in your body, I don't know. But don't work yourself into a panic for no reason.'

Francis sighed heavily. 'But why the same dream? Why is it getting clearer the older I get?'

Arthur leant back against his chair, crossing one leg over the other and he shrugged. 'Maybe the more you take them the more your brain reacts to them, or maybe your brain has associated drugs with that dream and the fear that goes with it, so it's created a pattern. It's okay to be scared of a dream, Francis, none of this is abnormal.'

Francis didn't answer so they settled back into the silence again. After a time, Arthur straightened his crumpled uniform shirt and got up to continue his shift. He left Francis, in accordance to his wishes, with his bed still at the slight incline to help him breathe and the lamp left on to bask the room in a dim orange glow, as well as the promise to return to check on him in a few hours.

Francis hated this; he'd had this problem since he was a young adult when he'd acquired the need for sleeping pills for the first time. The fear, the loud bag, and the large lumpy thing he received; they were all the same details. But the older he'd got, the more details he dreamt with, the more the fear grew as the more real the dream became. Recent times however, the dream were becoming very clear, and because he had been having the same one his whole lifetime it now felt more akin to a dream of a memory rather than a dream itself.

He shook himself and willed his body to relax and forced his muscles to stop tensing. Arthur was right, not that he'd ever tell him. He was over thinking this too much, the fear was _from_ the dream, not _for_ it. He'd experienced this before; he knew it would go away soon. Taking a deep breath in, he open his eyes to gaze around the room, lazily looking at everything cast in the warm, cosy light. Slowly, he slipped asleep again.

* * *

He came to at the sounds of a door clicking shut; probably Arthur, leaving again after his promised check up. The light in the room was now turned off, but the moonlight from the chink in the curtains allowed him to make sense of his surroundings in the dark. He shut his eyes and turned onto his right side to go back to sleep again when sudden icy cold panic rapidly pooled into his stomach and he snapped his eyes open again. The _briefcase;_ he'd dreamt about the briefcase! The outline was the same, the faded colour was the same; his tired eyes and the lack of light made him see the damn thing nestled in the corner in a whole new, horribly familiar way. That wasn't made him panic though, what made him freeze in sudden, irrational terror, stiff under the covers, was the fact that it had moved slightly forwards, now jutting out at an angle from the corner, and a few books that were nestled on top had been moved onto the floor.

Someone, most definitely from the home and whilst he lay sleeping, had tried to break into or open his stupid tatty briefcase.

Footsteps faded down the corridor outside and he started to shake.

 


	2. Fear Makes You Numb

  **Fear Makes you Numb**

 

Francis moved into the home voluntarily three years ago, aged 86. Having no children and being an only child himself, he knew that he'd have little option in regards to his welfare should his health become worse. Although his neighbours he spoke to were friendly and willing to help him, and as much as he loved his house and town, the stairs were becoming difficult to manage and household jobs were starting to fall to the wayside. After his wife had died suddenly and peacefully ten years previous, when he was 76, the concept of his own mortality started to become more stark and important than ever. He wanted to remain independent for as long as possible, but he promised himself that, once the time came, he would make the planned decision to go into a nursing home; the decision being his and his alone of healthy mind. He hoped that because it would be his own decision he'd tolerate and accept the help as well as his increasing dependency on others. What scared him most was the thought of dying alone at home, where no one would find him. He consoled himself that at least he'd first walk away from independence and into a home, rather than be wheeled into a hospice.

He had a cleaner at first eight years ago, a little help around the house here and there who was also happy to help him with shopping, and then, three years after, a part time home carer three times a week who'd make sure his pills were topped up, that he was healthy and that he was eating okay. He was also fond of going to the local community centre which put on events and classes for older people, giving him a chance to paint sculpt and bake where at home it was either too messy, dangerous or both to do alone.

Although he knew what the most logical and safest thing to do would be, the first time that he failed to walk up the stairs in one go three years ago scared him more than anything else he could remember. His wife Marie didn't have time to really grow old and weak, or feel ill or tired more often than normal. She just said she'd take a small nap before dinner, kissed him on the cheek and fell into a wakeless, comfortable sleep. He didn't have time to fear for her, or worry about her. It was the slow decline he himself feared, the drip drop of vitality and mobility slipping away unnoticed, the suspense of waiting for the day to come.

After fifteen minutes and almost three quarters of the way up the stairs, his chest was so tight that he couldn't get enough air in his lungs to take another step. He slid down the step and, in the middle of the stairway, he cried.

It took ten more minutes and a vice-like grip on the banister before he got the top; heart beat fast out of combined effort and fear. After a week of thorough searching through books and the internet, and recommendations from his nurse, he paid a visit to his doctor who gave him the consent he'd been dreading. Although he was still healthy for now, his lungs were straining under the pressure of anything too strenuous and his heart was becoming weak. It was cheaper and better for Francis mentally to go into a home for older people willingly, rather than pay for a stair lift or buy a new house and extend the inevitable.

* * *

It took a while to settle and get used to things, but all in all he didn't mind the home. They allowed him to take more things from his house than he'd expected and seemed like a pleasant and relaxing place. Broken into four 'stages', ranging from the healthy and able to the terminal house that Francis refused to look at, it covered all types of aged caring. He'd chosen it specifically because of the location, but also because it would cover him fully as he aged into either a slow decline or a quick jump from stage one to four. Moving into to one home bad enough, Francis didn't know how he'd cope if someone deemed him too high a risk to care for and needed to be shuttled off to a hospice; him being too far gone to say anything against it. Here he knew he'd be until he died. As it was a place he'd chosen, it was easier to deal with. Even though he'd be dying, he'd made the decision where to die. The last independent choice he'd make.

The staff were, for the most part, friendly. And then there was Arthur.

Francis knew, from the moment he introduced himself to him, that Arthur already had an opinion about Francis and it probably wasn't a pleasant one. He had no idea how he came to have this or what he'd heard, but at first he seemed to avoid interacting with Francis at all costs or regarded him with a cool, yet polite, indifference, so he could suppose that it was nothing good. He had a nice face and was well built body wise and thus Francis assumed he would respond well to some charm and teasing. Although he didn't manage to butter Arthur up, he did manage to extract genuine reactions that Francis hadn't had the pleasure of seeing for a while. Arthur was _fun_. Far removed from his polite manners and charming smile which he showed his patients and colleagues, Arthur would eventually snap back or scowl at him, or insult him back. Arthur would look flustered when caught unawares or go red around the ears when trying to resist throttling Francis when others were about. He'd turn into a bad winner or a sore loser when challenged to games of chess because he was so competitive that he'd never manage to say no, especially when taunted. Arthur was a real person in this god forsaken happy home for the elderly and Francis didn't know what he would have done if Arthur hadn't started just over a year ago. Didn't mean that he actually _liked_ him though.

As communicating with Arthur politely wasn't one of his preferred pastimes, he therefore didn't know why he, an Englishman, was working as a care home nurse near the middle of France. Or, why a man as young as he was, had decided to go into this profession in the first place. As a private home it wasn't cheap and Francis could only assume that the pay was reasonable for the higher than average care that they received; although there never seemed to be enough staff there were far more than for a state owned one. Francis didn't know whether Arthur had any family or whether he was close with them. He had no idea of his social life or where he lived when not working or even what his hobbies were. The other orderlies, especially a rather flamboyant man Jacques, seemed to love to talk about themselves and their lives; maybe to make them more relatable to patients and help them to fit in. Francis himself learnt more about random strangers in his first month than he ever knew about some of his neighbours after living next to them for decades. Arthur, however, never divulged anything, and if asked he'd try to find a way to worm his way out of the question or he'd offhandedly mention a vague fact about this family member there or that friend here. So, Francis had never asked about his reasons for being here and Arthur neither offered an explanation nor asked anything about him in return. He rather liked it that way.

* * *

A stocky middle aged nurse disturbed Francis in the morning. Known as Annette, she was a forty something year old divorcee who had been doing her job for far too long and was Arthur's partner orderly who, impossibly, was more than a grump than he was. They got on well.

'Good morning, Mr Bonnefoy, I trust you slept decently.' She marched in and flung open the curtains to reveal a grey and dreary day. 'I guess you won't be wandering about outside today, the report mentions rain and I'll not have you getting ill on my watch. Now,' she turned on her heel and fixed him with a hard stare, 'I heard we had a little nightmare last night. Anything more afterwards? Did you get back to sleep?'

Francis said nothing, but shook his head, effectively answering both. All of the orderlies knew about his issue with sleeping drugs, but they seemed to like trying him on new ones every once and a while. His sleeping had been getting worse as he aged.

'Well, I'll have to let Julia know; this isn't good, Mr Bonnefoy.' Part of his mind twisted with the urge to inform her that it was hardly his fault drugs induced hallucinatory nightmares, but his jaw felt stiff and he still didn't feel in control of his breathing enough to answer her without croaking or wheezing, which would ruin the intended effect entirely.

Arthur had left him with the slight incline in his bed, so his breathing was so far normal and easier, yet he hoped fervently that Annette would help him out of bed soon; he needed to get out of his room. The briefcase was still where it had been left; in the corner of the room and now jutting out slightly. His books were also left where they were dumped on the floor.

Francis hadn't managed to go back to sleep again last night. Fear and paranoia had drained any traces of the narcotic from his system and kept him alert and tense under his covers; eyes fixed on the door and window of the room. Since he'd been awoken he'd not heard anyone try and attempt to come into his bedroom, but he tensed every time soft footsteps fell outside his door, then relaxed again when they didn't stop. After the initial panic, his mind had raced trying to think up anything which could explain the situation and what on earth it could possibly mean. What reason would anyone have to try and break into or steal his old briefcase, which was probably empty or full of old tat? Though, he thought to himself drily, there must be something of value in there if it was worth someone trying to see inside.

After a while, he logically concluded that perhaps someone was curious and wanted to see for themselves what was in there, either doubting his word that he himself wasn't aware of the contents or simple curiosity on their part. However, if they were innocently curious, why not ask him if they could attempt to open it, rather than conduct their efforts suspiciously in the dead of night? Therefore it was either this, or someone mistook his case for their own which could have been lost or missing and wanted to check. Or, lastly and least probable, someone knew what was inside and wanted whatever was there; although, considering how long it had been in Francis' possession and how long it had been sat safe with him in the home, he doubted it. How many people could have been responsible? He had ruled out the possibility of it being the action of anyone not connected in some way to the home, but why would anyone have an interest in an old case, the contents of which were unknown even to him? Without the amount of staff available, each member was only required to do one night shift per week, further confusing Francis' option of people who could have possible tried to tamper with his case. There was no schedule for him to go by; staff could pick and choose any day they wished to. The only person he could think to be responsible in any way was Amélie who had only just been told about the case. Yet, as it was her first shift, she wouldn't have been left alone, especially if Arthur was lurking about with her.

It terrified him slightly to think, but someone physically close to him had broken in to his room, and walked past him sleeping. What comforted, however, him was that if they wanted to, they could have targeted him or hurt him that night but hadn't, meaning that he was probably safe for now and it was probably more of an act of suspicious curiosity. It was also possible that he imagined the whole thing; the suitcase was shrouded in a dark corner of the room and after his nightmare, it was easy to conclude that he'd jumped to the case and connected the fear from his dream and it hadn't moved at all. Yet, as the sun rose and Francis stayed awake, it became more apparent that it had indeed shifted forwards slightly and the books were shifted from the top of the case into a scattered pile besides it.

Despite the irrationality of the whole thing, what actually scared him was the why; why on earth would some try and open his case in the middle of the night if not for suspicious intentions?

Annette gave him a hard stare. 'Are you feeling alright, Mr Bonnefoy?'

Francs cleared his throat. 'Yes, I'm just still a little tired, that's all.'

She stood akimbo and raised an eyebrow. 'I'm sure, Mr Bonnefoy. Time to get you up and dressed then.' She checked his temperature and pulse, and once satisfied, helped him to get up, dressed and ready for breakfast.

* * *

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. The staff from last night seemed to have informed those in the morning which meant, of course, that now everyone knew. Mrs Dubois, upon meeting him in the living area in the morning huffed and haughtily informed him that he'd woken her last night. 'It's happening more often more these days Francis, you really ought to be used to all of this by now. I don't see why you have to keep fussing.'

Francis gave a cruel smile. 'Believe me Madame, it is hardly my intention to rouse you each and every time, yet whilst we're on the subject, I'd like to helpfully inform you that your snoring is also increasing in volume. For one who likes undisturbed sleep, you seem to be quite the master at disturbing others.'

After Mrs Dubois had turned an interesting shade of puce and stormed (or, Francis happily noted, waddled) off in indignation, Francis had been forcefully guided away by Annette and under her watchful eye, made to eat some breakfast which he didn't really want whilst she scolded him on expected resident behaviour. The rest of the day was spent wandering about inside either watching television or reading when not pondering about what happened last night. The other residents continued on with life as usual.

After a time it became apparent that was he was going to need to talk to someone. He needed to go over everything his mind had been buzzing over and he needed to have someone tell him harshly that he was being a stupid idiot and that there was an obvious explanation for everything. Unfortunately for him, the only person he knew of whom was still willing to provide him those services was Arthur, who, due to the nightshift last night, wouldn't be back in until tomorrow morning. Asides from him, there was always the possibility of confiding in the other residents.

Even though he was good friends with many he wouldn't call them ideal in matters of discussing a personal issue. Most of them were, like himself, sat in the clinically clean and comfortable chairs which were dotted around the room; either in clumps by tables of bookcases or congregated about the television. The chairs were movable, with wheels, which made them convenient for the carers to shuffle their charges about as needed. He knew that although a few would love a scandal they'd either try too hard to help, and risk exposing it to the whole building, or panic about it unduly and inform an orderly, who'd do exactly the same thing whilst also treating him like an infantile old man. Francis shook his head sadly; it was going to have to be that English speaking arsehole who was gone for at least another 24 hours. He'd have to suffer alone until then.

A slight distraction from his mental ramblings came in the form of Julia herself, who visited him after lunch. Like the rest of the staff, she'd been bustling about all day, looking slightly harried, trying to make everything run on time and smoothly.

Francis was still in his chair and thus was denied any quick means of escape.

'Francis, we need to have a talk.' She was a kindly, yet strict woman with an open face and deep olive skin who carried her responsibility as head nurse very well. She laid her hand gently on his arm, effectively trapping his attention. Francis interrupted before she'd even started talking.

'I don't want any more sleeping pills.'

'Now Francis-'

'No.' He cut her off quickly. 'I don't want any more. I've had this problem all of my life and as many different types I've tried, my reaction to sleeping medicine has not got any better.' He decided it was best to leave out that they'd started to become progressively worse.

She looked at him sympathetically, or something he defensively interpreted as pity before answering gently. 'Modern medicine gets better every day, the methods you tried in the past have been improved now; there's a high chance there's many new pills that you're not tried that could be prefect for you, we've just go to find the right mix or dose.'

Francis was surprised by the sudden tightness of his throat and the burn in his eyes. He would not be affected this much by something so trivial, he _refused_ to break now.

'I don't-' he swallowed. 'I don't want any more. I'm happy to try anything else, even some hypnotherapy if I really can't sleep, but I don't want to use any more narcotics. At all.'

He stared straight at her and refused to look away. She had a sad look in her eyes and gave him a weak smile. 'I can't promise you anything, Francis. I can give you my word that I'll try, and I'll give you my word that I will only use them as a last resort, but this is a problem that's not going to go away. You need to sleep in order to remain healthy and that is my primary concern. And I'm afraid that's my decision to make.'

Francis turned away and stared pointedly at the television until she gave his arm one last pat and went away.

That night Francis lay there silently in bed, half of him alert and listening for footsteps stalling at his door or the creak of a handle being turned, and the other half willing himself to fall asleep naturally. It did happen sometimes, but lately it was becoming more and more difficult to drop off. Tonight, it seemed he was lucky; the events of the night previous, and the tension he'd been carrying all day had drained him, and he dropped off into an uneasy, fitful sleep.

* * *

_He dreamt of apple orchards and the smell of rain, and looking for someone whom he could never find._

* * *

He was awoken by the sun shining onto his face from that stupid chink in the curtains. He had lain on his side, which explained the stiffness he was now feeling in his spine, so he carefully and slowly rolled over to lay flat on his back. It was early, the time read a quarter past six and he was content to lay there and doze until either Arthur came to get him out of bed or someone else did. A quick and hasty glance in the direct of the case relaxed him; it had neither been moved, nor touched during the night.

He lay undisturbed with his eyes shut and contentedly napping until twenty past seven. The door clicked and his eyes swiftly opened to see Arthur pulling open the curtains to let in more light. He stretched his arms above his head.

'Morning my dear, you're late this morning.'

'I saw to Mrs Dubois first, sorry for the delay.'

Arthur's accent was thicker than usual today. Francis opened his mouth to comment when he caught a glimpse of Arthur's face. He looked _awful._ In the time he'd known him, he'd never seen Arthur look so stressed; his face was pale and his eyes looked incredibly tired.

'What on earth happened to you?'

Arthur sighed. 'I missed you too Francis.'

He stared intently out of the window at something for a moment before coming across the room to tilt Francis up; then moved across to get him some clothes from the drawer and a glass of water.

Francis accepted the cup, took a sip and placed it on the bedside table. 'I thought your appearance was terrible before, but this is a grand new accomplishment.'

Arthur sighed but answered him. 'I haven't slept since the night before I last saw you.'

'That was three days ago.'

'That, I am well aware of, thank you for your oh so helpful observation.'

'I do aim to please.' Francis looked at the clothes. 'You're not going to really make me wear that, are you?'

Arthur growled at him and huffily threw the clothes back into the drawer before retrieving new ones. Francis wasn't too worried about him.

Arthur held up and shirt to Francis, who considered it before nodding. 'Better.'

'They're all your clothes, you know. If you don't like something it's your own fault.'

Francis gave him a disgusted look. 'It's not _my_ clothes which are the problem, you foolish man, it's the combination you put them in.'

Either Arthur was too tired to care, or he found the argument too below him to rise to, because he remained silent and put the new clothes on the bed, shaking his head slightly.

As Francis unbuttoned his shirt and started to put in on, Arthur reached over back towards the counter and grabbed his clip board. 'How have you slept since I last saw you?'

'Better.' Francis was staring at the buttons of the shirt with deep concentration contorting his features. Arthur made no move to assist him. 'I manage to fall asleep naturally last night and slept the whole way through.'

Arthur nodded and made a note. 'Fits every other time, hopefully the sleep you managed to get from the medicine broke the pattern of insomnia; for a while at least.'

'I hope so.' Francis had finished with his shirt and stared at Arthur expectedly. Moving closer Arthur helped him put his legs in his trousers and then left him to it.

There was a brief, comfortable silence before Arthur rudely broke it.

'Julia spoke to me as I started this morning.' Francis winced as he finished buckling his belt and averted his eyes to look out of the window. 'Just so that you know, I don't agree with her.'

Francis felt a swell of relief that was dampened slightly by his companion's next words. 'But I'm afraid, as you know, there's nothing much I can do.' Noticing Francis' despondent look, he added, 'I've given my opinion, so that should count for something but she's got the final say in the matter. Perhaps she'll consider non-medicinal means before trying another narcotic, but I can't promise you that you'll never have to try another type again.'

Francis sighed. 'Well, I appreciate you trying.'

Arthur nodded and came forward to sit him on the bed to put on his shoes. Once finished, he stood and got ready to help the other up. As Francis placed a hand on Arthur's shoulder to steady him up, he pushed a bit of his shirt sleeve up to reveal a slight red tinge to his skin just above the elbow. He felt a prick of desperation catch in his throat.

'Did I do that?'

Arthur looked down at him arm and smoothed his sleeve back down to cover it. 'It doesn't matter Francis.'

'I did, didn't I?'

'It wasn't your fault.' Francis bit his lip and looked away, guilt licking at his stomach. 'Francis, it's- look at me. Francis.' He looked back. 'I know you didn't mean it; you were hallucinating and it's okay.'

Francis nodded. As Arthur moved to stand back a bit, his sleeve moved and exposed the bottom part slightly. Francis, with every fibre of his being, _hated_ sleeping pills and swore that he was going to refuse to swallow any others they tried to give him; he couldn't take this any more, especially if he was now starting to lose control of himself. The helplessness, and the loss of control that they caused, disgusted him.

Arthur broke any further building awkwardness between them by dipping his head and hesitating, before opening the bedroom door. 'Right, well. Let's get you some frog fuel; there's no point in moping in here all day.'

'I don't miss you at all when you leave, you _cretin_.'

* * *

The morning's conversation led the topic of the case and what he wanted to discuss slip from his mind. Francis didn't get another chance to talk to Arthur until mid-morning. There were a few members of staff off sick and those remaining had to pick up the slack, so apart from taking a cup of coffee Jean all but forced upon him, Arthur wouldn't stay still or free long enough for Francis to grab him and pull him aside. The longer he went without talking about it, the less serious the situation was becoming and the more foolish he was feeling for his panic. If he didn't tell Arthur soon, he knew he was going to be tempted to say nothing at all and hope the problem would go away, which, although probable, was logically unwise.

After making sure that everyone had something to eat, Arthur slipped out quietly from the room without telling anyone where he was going. As all residents were currently eating in the communal area, Francis knew for one that they'd be alone and two, that Arthur wasn't supposed to be leaving. With the knowledge that a moment like this may not come around again for the rest of the day and the curiosity helping him along, he made up his mind to follow before quickly made his move. Getting up fast proved to be a problem, but as he'd be waiting for a chance to go, he managed to pull himself up on a well-placed table he'd rationally chosen to sit next to after eating. Tracing the direction Arthur took, Francis was about to walk down the corridor leading to the staff room when he caught the sound of Arthur talking softly from the other direction.

Peeking around the other corridor, Francis saw Arthur out of the large French windows in the patio courtyard on his phone. His voice was muffled from this far away, but he was holding his head tiredly in one hand and leaning heavily against the wall. Upon edging closer, he discovered that the conversation, much to his irritation, was being held in English. His pride and the lack necessity for it meant that during his youth and later years he never had a reason to learn English at all. He knew the odd word from shows and films, but apart from hello and goodbye and a few other basics, Francis had no idea what was going on.

His words varied, from his usual abruptness, like the tone he used when talking to Francis, to soft, tired garbles of complicated English syllables. Whatever it was, it was obvious he was talking with someone he knew. Soon after Francis' arrival, Arthur cut the call with a soft 'bye' and opened the door and called from outside. 'Once you're content with abandoning your morals to eavesdrop, Francis, you can come and join me.'

Francis sniffed in disdain. 'I couldn't understand any word of your barbarian language anyway.'

'Your reward for eavesdropping on a private conversation.' Arthur held the door open for him as he stepped out and then shut it gently behind him.

'I didn't know that sneaking out to make personal calls on shift was allowed, especially a carer of such a high calibre like yourself.'

Arthur looked away. 'It was important, sadly.'

Francis continued to stare at him.

'I'm not telling you any more, it was a personal issue.'

Francis sighed through his nose but didn't press any further.

'So?' Arthur looked at him. 'What brought you out here to impose on me?'

Francis looked uncomfortable. 'I need to talk to you about something.'

Arthur gave him a look that asked for more information but patiently waited for him to continue.

It had started to rain lightly, so after a few seconds of silence, Arthur gave a small nod and pushed himself off the wall. 'Let's get it over with inside then, shall we?'

Arthur led him back to his room and helped Francis into a chair. He himself then backed away and leant against the counter. He looked at him and gave him a nod, as if to signify that he was now allowed to speak, a rile that Francis wouldn't allow himself to rise to.

All of a sudden, Francis couldn't think of where to begin.

After a moment of silence, Arthur opened his mouth and Francis held up a hand to quickly stop him. 'The night-' Then, in a flash, he realised that Arthur was the last person he saw before he fell back asleep and the person who was last meant to check on his room; in all possibility, it could have even been Arthur. He could be about to voice his worries to the very person that had tampered with his case in the first place. Not only that, but it didn't really seem to be a big issue any more. Okay, someone moved his case about a bit; there wasn't anything necessarily wrong with that? It wasn't _dangerous;_ it wasn't anything he should feel as though he _had_ to confide in someone. Someone could have even knocked it during the night whilst they all came in when he woke from his nightmare. It all seemed so stupid now and he felt foolish and unsure of how to continue.

'Francis? Are you okay?' Francis made up his mind, it wasn't worth it; he was just being stupid.

He pulled himself up and looked Arthur in the eye. 'I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry; about your arm.'

Arthur raised his eyebrows and moved a hand, probably subconsciously, to rub just above his elbow. 'Francis-'

'No, please let me explain.' He breathed out deeply through his nose. 'Just because I was hallucinatory, and yes, I am aware that it wasn't really my fault, I still managed to grip you hard enough to leave a mark after two days, and, intentional or not, I want to apologise properly.'

Arthur reddened, but Francis had to commend him for not looking away. He gave him a sad smile instead. 'Well, thank you, but it's really nothing to worry about; I hold nothing against you… are you sure that was all?'

Francis cursed inwardly at Arthur's habit of attempting prying further than he needed to. 'I'm sure.'

Arthur moved forwards to pat him awkwardly on the shoulder before moving to help him up. 'Okay then, but if there is anything else, please, um… don't hesitate to talk to me, okay?'

Francis stood and waved him off with irritation. 'Yes, yes, I'll make sure I leap to cry at your feet. Now, go away to do your job, goodness knows I don't wish to be around you longer than I have to be and you're almost certainly expected to be somewhere else.'

Arthur scowled at him. ' _Of course, your Highness. Pardon me for doing my job._ ' He responded in English, which reasonably made Francis angry because he although he couldn't understand the meaning, he could guess it wasn't a cheery and uplifting compliment for him. He huffed at him and watched as Arthur stalked away.

Although he hadn't intended to, apologising had at least eased some of the guilt he didn't realise he'd been carrying about with him all morning until it had ceased to twist in his stomach. He sighed and glanced at the case before moving over to inspect it. During breakfast, someone had made his bed and the day before his books had been collected from off the floor and had stacked none too neatly back on top of the scuffed leather. With his foot, he carefully, and with a depressing amount of effort on his part, he slid the briefcase back to its original position. Picking up the first book on top, he eased himself into his chair slowly using a wall frame, and read the morning away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading; knowing that this has an audience and that people are interested in this little idea of mine is a wonderful feeling. Please let me know of your thought, or improvements; I hope you enjoy.


	3. Terror Makes You Act

** Terror Makes You Act **

As each shift was twelve hours long, today Arthur had left at seven after clocking in seven am. The night shift was also twelve hours long, with brief overlaps required to relieve the daytime staff or their night-shift colleagues respectively. As neither Arthur nor Annette had any patients who required any extra medical needs or lifting, one usually arrived at just before seven am to leave twelve hours later and the other would arrive at ten am, then they'd switch the next day. This way, all of the four patients between them would be helped in or out of bed by at least one of them. Although the system worked well, as the patients, especially Mr Picot who was losing his memory, knew to trust their carers and settle into a routine, it also meant that Francis was either constantly settled in or woken up by one of the two most irritable members of staff. He was happily delighted, then, when he was gifted with the presence of Amélie knocking and sticking her head thorough the door instead. As of yet Amélie had no patients of her own and she was usually found either helping out morning or night shifts wherever she was needed.

'My dear, you don't know how glad I am to see you.'

She gave him a bright smile and moved fully into the room. 'I'm happy to see you too, have you have a nice evening?'

'I have indeed.' He smiled at her from his spot on the chair. 'Though, if you don't mind me asking, where is Annette?'

'Oh, it's no trouble. She's got other residents to see too as Jacques's taken the evening off sick.'

'Another member sick?'

She hmm'd sadly. 'Yes, there's something going around.'

'Well, you make sure you look after yourself; they're keeping you busy, no? I've hardly seen you all day.'

She nodded and bent to collect his nightclothes from the drawer. 'I think Julia's trying to get me properly acquainted with everyone in the building to see who I could offer the most help to. It's been very interested talking to everyone.'

She was very slim and just below average height, so Francis doubted she'd be able to help over half of the population in this building, especially those who required lifting. 'I might be lucky chou, I could be blessed with you instead of stuff old Arthur.'

She laughed politely and gently helped him off the chair and into bed where she helped him change into his nightclothes.

When he was comfortably settled down, she straightened up and nervously tugged her short brown hair. 'Arthur isn't… I mean he's not… _cruel_ to you, is he? Anything you say won't go further than here, of course, unless you want it to.'

'What? Oh no no, Cherie, no; we're just joking! Has Julia said something?'

She shook her head but looked relieved. 'No, I was just wondering after hearing how he speaks to you. He's so nice with everyone else and I was just worried that… maybe…well…'

Francis took her hand and gave her a wink. 'Do you really think I'd let an Englishman continue to be within shooting range of me if he were truly bothering me?'

She laughed genuinely this time, and gave his hand a friendly stroke. 'I don't doubt it, Francis.

After asking if he needed anything else, Amélie fetched him his nightly pills and a glass of water before bidding him goodnight, dimming the lights and shutting the door.

Francis had a deep, dreamless sleep. 

* * *

The next morning, once he cracked open an eye warily, offered no changes in the matter of his case and Francis was content to forget that anything had ever happened to it at all. It was obviously mere paranoia; maybe he or someone else had moved the case ages ago and he had just noticed it then. Or, maybe, the books had fallen off ages ago and he'd again not noticed. Although he knew these scenarios were unlikely, it was far more unlikely that anything suspicious was going on and he was happy to move on and pass the whole thing off as 'one of those things'.

He was unhappily extracted from his bed by Annette and was then unexcitedly seated next to old Mr Picot during breakfast, where he pretended to be surprised by the same funny story of his that he happily told Francis at least once a day. After his boring morning, of which neither Amélie nor any other young, fun carer was free to entertain him, Francis desperately needed a nap to fly him to the afternoon and relieve him from the hourly growing tedium. He dozed in an armchair by the fancy bay windows and then woke up for a light lunch before watching an hour's worth of news about some recent storms which had caused extensive flash flooding in South East England and were leaving a death toll in their wake. He tried to pass time playing chess with another resident but, after being unable to decide whether his competitor was taking time between moves to concentrate and plan or to simply remind himself of how to play, Francis gave up. He managed to last until about five in the evening before the utter frustration at being unable to occupy himself with something inside burst, causing him to fidget with an agitation he knew wouldn't pass. So, when no one was watching, he escaped the home and the depressive mentions of death and degeneration to womble down to his favourite bench, the furthest yet safest distance for him from the home; staying with a sketch book to enjoy the sunshine.

He hadn't tried to draw in a while; recently his hands had begun to lose the perfect control his mind knew they were once capable of and this had saddened and frustrated him too much to attempt again. Today, though, had tempted him to try. It was nice and warm outside; the sun had arced over the sky and lazed in front of him, overlooking the grassy field and trees and basking them in yellow tones. His favourite light to draw in had been early morning; when the air felt fresh and sharp and the light was clear, or in the late afternoon and early evening when the tones were deeper and the air heavy with the day. It felt nice just to sit and be alone for a while, where his mind didn't feel reminded about the newer and unwelcome restraints age had shackled on his body.

His peace was broken over an hour later (a new record in terms of his escape attempts) by, of course, Arthur.

Francis heard him before he saw him, as seemed to be his style. 'For fuck's sake Francis, Jean was in charge of the communal room today, you could have at least told him you were leaving in passing; poor bloke looks like he's about to have kittens.' His voice came from his right; accent thick.

He didn't look up, but continued to shakily attempt to sketch an outline of one of the trees in front of him. It was taking a while. 'My dear one, when art calls, you must answer it.'

'Yes, that's lovely, but you need to come back now and apologise to Jean first, maybe he'll let you back out again.'

'I'm not a caged animal,' he spat vehemently all feelings of peace shattered instantly, 'I should not need permission to be _let out_.'

Arthur didn't reply for so long that Francis looked up to make sure that he was still there. He glanced to where the Arthur voice had come from and had to consciously stop himself from forming an expression of shock. If possible, Arthur looked worse than yesterday; it was obvious that he once again had not slept and his face was so pale and pained looking it was surprising he wasn't asleep on his feet.

Arthur didn't change his expression. 'It's rude to stare, you know.'

'My God, are you ill?' Francis scooted up the bench with the obvious intention of forcing Arthur to sit down.

Arthur scowled at him but accepted the unspoken offer; sitting heavily and slouching forward to rest his elbows on his thighs. 'No, I'm not. God knows what the rest of them are getting; I just haven't slept at all.'

'Have you not tried sleeping pills?' If Arthur hadn't looked so terrible, Francis probably would have laughed at the similarities of their situations.

Arthur shook his head slowly and his hair was ruffled slightly by a cool, sea brought breeze. 'No, they don't work on me; never have.'

'Well God, I know you don't exactly do much in the way of help around here, but you can't be of use to anyone like this.'

Arthur didn't rise to the insult, but merely grunted before answering in a flat tone. 'No, I'm not, but with the amount of staff currently going off there's not enough left to manage everyone safely, so I can't afford to take time off if I'm not actually ill. Besides, I'm only tired; I can still help and I'm not a risk to the vulnerable elderly, such as yourself.'

Francis frowned at him but let him be; turning back to his sketch book, he continued to draw.

They sat for a while in companionable silence; Arthur seemingly having given up the fight to return him after sitting down and not moving. It was swiftly broken, however, as Arthur's phone bleeped a new text message. Retrieving it from his trouser pocket, he read it swiftly as Francis continued to draw and then released a deep sigh through his nose. 'Come on Francis, time to go. Jean is really starting to panic.'

Francis concentrated on shading the trunk of the tree. 'Can't you text him to let him know where I am?'

'I did,' Arthur placed his phone back in his pocket after flying his finger across the screen, 'but it's going to start getting dark soon and chilly, and I'd rather not drag you back up hill in limited visibility; I don't think your frail old man eyes could take it.'

Being unable to protest, and unwilling to admit that he was becoming slightly cold; Francis slotted his pencil into the ringed binder and shut the book. 'Fine, let's go.'

Arthur stood in an easy movement, but, once up, clenched his eyes shut and gripped the back of the bench as he swayed suddenly. Francis, despite himself, found himself horribly concerned. 'Arthur? Are you alright?' He shifted himself along the bench and tried to tug him into sitting again, but Arthur wouldn't budge. 'Please, sit back down.'

Arthur opened his eyes and took a shaky breath before speaking. 'I'm okay; I just stood up too quickly.'

'Nonsense! Arthur, seriously, you need to go home.'

'It's fine, I'll take some of that coffee Jean keeps trying to force on me; wake me up a bit.' Arthur moved in front of him and made to help him stand, but Francis wouldn't cooperate and kept batting his hands away. Frustrated, Arthur stood back and run a hand through his hair exasperatedly. 'Okay, okay, fine. I'll take you back, and then I'll ask Jean if he'll let me go, alright?'

If anything, Arthur's quick consent to time off work due to poor health without a fight made Francis worry more, and he tried to put as little of his weight on Arthur as possible as he was helped up. As they set off, Arthur kept pace with Francis but Francis couldn't help but notice that the orderly walked slowly even without Francis pacing them and with a slight stiffness hindering his left leg. Back in the home, Francis made sure to deliver Arthur to Jean himself, who promptly, upon seeing him, agreed with Francis that he needed to go home and rest. Francis was then given a firm scolding and a promise that Annette would be made aware of what he'd been up to, something Francis dreaded more than anything.

He wasn't wrong to be afraid. As Arthur had left just after five, Annette was still prowling about and searched for him until he was found. Francis had a sickening suspicion that she must have had something to do with law enforcement in previous years.

She caught him whilst he was rearranging the books that usually sat on his case and strode in without even a hello.

'Mr Bonnefoy, I'm warning you _right now_ that if you walk off again, without telling anyone, your outside privileges will be revoked and if you _do_ ever gain them back again, you _will_ be companied by a member of staff at all times.'

She held up a hand as Francis opened his mouth to interject. 'I don't want to hear it, sir, you have no say in this matter; myself and Mr Kirkland are responsible for your care and it will be our decision and ours alone. Do you understand?'

He clenched his teeth but managed to ground out a 'perfectly' before she nodded haughtily and left him alone to seethe. 

* * *

_He was in a room where the air was cool, overlooking a vast green field where the setting sun carved long, deep shadows through the grass. He was on his toes to stare out of the window but dropped back down when a hand clasped his shoulder, and gave it a tight, friendly squeeze. The walls in front of him were white. 'You'll grow up nice and strong; I know you'll make me proud.' The hand moved to ruffle his hair and he knew his mouth was stretched into a wide grin. He wore sandals and thought that they'd do perfectly for exploring the fields tomorrow._

* * *

It was Jean who shook him away the next morning.

'Francis? It's lovely that you're sleeping again, my friend, but I'm afraid it's time to get up now.' He had a gruff, but pleasant voice, but this morning it was grating and made Francis want to burrow into his blankets to get away from it.

He cracked open and eye to see Jean's lanky form and thinning head loom above him.

'There we go.' Jean clapped him on the shoulder and raised him up. Francis liked Jean; he often sat with him and told him dirty jokes and stories or gave Francis more leeway when it came to things like allowing Francis to meddle in the kitchen or other forms of rule breaking.

'I'm sorry about feeding you to Annette yesterday,' he continued; a guilty tone lacing his voice, 'but I was really panicking when I couldn't find you and I need you to understand how important it is that you tell someone where you go.'

Francis nodded glumly but gave him a smile. 'I know, I probably deserved it.'

Jean laughed, 'You did; what if something happened to you and no one knew where you were? I'd lose my best partner in crime!'

Francis gave him a grin in return and allowed himself to be helped up and dressed by Jean's rough hands.

'Arthur not here?'

Jean shook his head sadly. 'No, he requested some time off saying that he felt worse.' He stopped to shift Francis' arms through his sleeves and pull them into position. 'I knew he looked awful yesterday but we have so many people off and he said he was fine and willing to work. I was so desperate for people but I should have realised that he wasn't up for it.'

Frustratingly, this news made Francis more worried about him. Bastard, causing issues even when he wasn't here.

Jean finished dressing him and accompanied him to the communal area for breakfast. The day, although it had started off with a good morning, didn't stay that way. During breakfast, a meal of simple croissants and jam, Francis happened to glance out of the window in the eating area by chance and could have sworn that he saw someone pass by outside that he didn't know, which, considering the location of the home, was concerning. After passing it off as either most likely a gardener, Francis then wandered back to his room after breakfast to retrieve a book from his room for him to read back in the communal area. Pushing open his door, his eyes were drawn to the window to find that it was barely open and the shelf of knick-knacks underneath it had been disturbed slightly. He stood for a moment in the doorway, bewildered, before cautiously moving forward to have a closer look. For the life of him, he could have _sworn_ that when he left for breakfast, he'd left it tightly shut. That's not to say that an orderly hadn't been in after him and had pushed it open again, but that didn't explain the disturbance of his things. The shelf underneath had objects on it because it wasn't in the way of the window; it was lower than the ledge and was placed accordingly for a wheelchair user occupant to get to easily. The nurses often brushed some things with the hem of their shirts as they reached to unlock the handle and swing open the window, but it was low enough that they'd never touched or knocked anything before. Rooms were polished once a week, but the cleaners only came in a couple of days ago.

He stood staring at the shelf and then warily cast his eyes about the room. Nothing else had been touched. Even the case sat, as it had done for a while now, untouched and innocent looking to the right of the shelf and window, still tucked in its corner. After a further, careful inspection of his room turned up nothing else abnormal, he cautiously sat in his chair to read rather than going back to the main room; occasionally flicking his eyes towards the window. He felt as though he was stood on the edge of a moment, agitated and fidgety, waiting for something that he knew was bound to happen but he just didn't know what or when.

Incidents such at this continued for the next two days. Some staff had filtered back in again and the home was back to almost normal stress levels, but Francis was anything but comfortable. Although he hadn't _seen_ anything else, he constantly felt watched, or that there was someone lurking in his peripheral vision. He'd turn his head to find no one but he was filled with the sense that someone had just moved. And even though he told himself that his feelings were a result of the previous incidents, his room felt _different._ Nothing was out of place at all, but things didn't seem as though they were in the same place they'd always been. Like someone had touched them and put them straight back, exactly as they'd been originally but just that tiny bit too far left or right. Berating himself for suddenly becoming so paranoid about nothing, Francis tried his hardest to ignore the feeling and attempted to continue as normal, which he was finding increasingly more difficult as days went by.

 

* * *

_He dreamt that he was holding a toy sword tight in a fist. His dad dressed him in a top that was too long and it hung lower than he could ever remember it being. There was a smell of blood in the air; sharp and intruding it caught his nose and he connected the smell to the swirling pool of rage and guilt twisting and roaring in his chest. A child was crying and Francis tried to tell himself that he felt nothing._

 

* * *

On the third day of Arthur's absence, rather than being relaxed about having some pest freer mornings and evenings, he was feeling so anxious that if anyone were to touch him unawares he thought he'd probably scream and or have a heart attack. If the carers noticed they hadn't said anything, although Annette was being oddly calm with him and had even suggested that he took a walk or sign up for the beach trip that was being held in a few days' time.

Francis calmed himself, as much as possible, by baking. He'd been allowed into the kitchen by Amélie's suggestion to give him something to do and to be practical, supervised only, by creating a few tarts in the honour of the extra hours of sun the summer was gifting them. For a few hours, Francis forgot himself entirely, and if it weren't for his hands which shook if he tried to do anything too delicate, he wouldn't have noticed his age at all. Emma, the kitchen help, also turned out to be a very cheerful and jokey lady, when not being loomed over by Louisa. She helped him by operating the oven and anything else up too high or low and spoke to him over her shoulder as she placed the little tarts on a tray. 'These need to go into the oven for how long?'

Francis patted some crumbs from his hands before washing them in the sink. 'Just half an hour on a high heat; make sure not to open the door though otherwise the pastry won't come out right.'

Emma raised her eyebrow at him and bent down to put them in. 'I know Francis.' Straightening up again, she smiled at him. 'Okay, you may as well go back to your room again and rest for a bit; we've got to get ready for lunch but I'll let you know when they're done.'

He conceded and moved into the corridor. The passage to his room was empty, and apart from muffled talking from behind him and the sound of someone talking in their room, it was beautifully silent. As he approached his room a small pip of anxiety dropped into his stomach. His door was shut, which was odd as he could have sworn that he'd left it open to help keep it cool as the sun continued to stream in through his window in the morning.

He approached it slowly; treading as softly as he could. 'Don't be so stupid, you senile old fool.' He scolding himself before grabbing the handle with confidence he didn't really feel and pushing open his door to stride in. As his eyes adjusted to the light from the window, a cry caught in his throat and died.

His case, that he'd pushed back and everyday made _sure_ was pushed back, had once again been moved. Further forward this time and pulled horizontally, the top was exposed; his books were strewn across the bed as though they'd been thrown in a hurry and forgotten about. The room was, thankfully, empty, but all Francis could see was his case which now had deep, violent scratches running through the old leather across the top by the locks. The locks themselves were scratched and the leather impressions were deep and jagged. Although old, the leather was very thick and the locks very strong, so the cuts themselves were testimony to the furious, unrestrained violence someone had inflicted upon the briefcase wielding something very sharp and with a lot of strength.

Francis' mind went blank; too shocked to feel any fear or panic he could only stand there in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame and the other hanging uselessly by his side. The window was once again open and the curtains fluttered pathetically in the slight breeze. Whoever it was, it wasn't Arthur and Francis was completely and utterly alone.

 

* * *

It had taken a few minutes to move into his room again. Being unable to tear his eyes from the case, Francis had every instinct he possessed screaming at him to get out of the room and to somewhere with people as fast as he possibly could. The thing that was concerning him the most at the moment was the violence of it all, those gashes were deep and frenzied and the person must have had such an _anger_ or desperate need to either the importance of the contents, or the inability to gain access to whatever was inside. After checking the entire room first to make sure that he was once again alone; Francis shut the door and window and went to look closer at the case. After his heart had stopped beating so furiously logic had allowed fear to be replaced by anger. Who the _hell_ was doing this? What damned _right_ did they have, to damage and attempt to steal from him? Francis pulled his zimmer frame, which he tried not to use at all costs, from its place tucked next to the wardrobe towards him and eased himself to the floor. He knees instantly protested but Francis ignored them in favour of pulling the case forward to inspect it.

The cuts, although being deep and caused by someone with a lot of power, had not been enough to penetrate the interior. No cut was straight, each deep gauge had been created through repeated slashes aimed at the same spot. The tough leather had held out, despite its age. Turning to the locks, Francis tried to pry the case open and still found it stuck fast. Locks were just as well made, for there were smaller cuts aimed at the joining where metal met leather that had obviously been made with more care and intention. Maybe with a sawing motion rather than a slashing one had caused these. The locks themselves were ones fastened shut with a key that Francis had never seen, even though he had thoroughly searched his loft a thousand times after he first found it. At first he'd curiously tried to see what was inside, but after being denied entry after a few attempts, he'd lost interest. It made sense that the person had attempted to break the lock, maybe by picking it first and then cutting them open, but had lost their temper and self-control and had let loose in a last ditch attempt to gain entry. Francis looked up and scanned the shelf.

Sure enough, there was evidence of a disturbance again. Someone was clearly climbing in through the window. Creaking himself up, Francis got up and crossed the room before checking inside the ring box and inspecting the watch which both sat atop the shelf. Both there.

He then walked to his wardrobe to open his drawers where other valuables lay hidden; the same was repeated for the bedside table. The ones in his wardrobe were slightly open, and the clothes inside were disorganised and ruffled. He never really went into his drawers as they mostly contained clothes, so he couldn't tell if this disturbance was from today or some previous. Evidently, someone thought that he had the key to the case.

All valuables were there. This was obviously not a break in for money or other form of petty theft. Nothing was taken, even things obviously on show, and no other resident had experienced any problems. This was all down to the case, and whatever it was guarding. Francis gingerly sunk himself into his chair and rested his head in his hands; fingers gripping onto his hair. They must have heard him returning and fled. Whoever it was, they probably wouldn't be coming back today. Day time itself carried a big risk and gave an indication to the would-be thief's desperation as there were so many people about to see you; residents could see anyone entering either from outside or from the rooms opposite which often left their doors open during the day and staff could easily catch someone being somewhere they shouldn't. Now that he knew the perpetrator was entering through the window, the other residents could definitely be ruled out. None were fit enough, and nor did they have the key to the window. Only the carers and cleaners did, which also ruled out a person from the nearby town and the gardeners. But why would a carer or cleaner take such a big risk by acting during the day and risk being recognised? When would they have the time? Or had they been seen and were convincing the resident or fellow staff member to stay quiet?

The other break-ins to his room, for now with hard evidence in front of him Francis knew that's what the other incidents were, had been subtle, leaving behind no suspicious clues to anyone other than sharp eyed Francis. Now, with these gashes being very, very real, time must have run out, for both him and his case. The attempts had been caught and exposed, and judging by the story of furious desperation and violence of the attack told by the gashes, time was running out for whatever reason for them too.

By almost catching them in the act, Francis had started a timer towards a consequence. He had to do something; the options being to continue to ignore it, or tell someone. Whoever did this must know that. If he did nothing, the attacker couldn't run the risk of him exposing the event later; someone would surely ask questions sooner or later about the case's new appearance, so Francis was putting himself is very real danger. Tonight, when he fell asleep, there was a high chance that he wouldn't be awake come morning to say anything to anyone, especially if the intruder had access to keys. If he told someone, police would become involved. The time between Francis telling someone, or falling asleep at night. That was his time frame to act; he didn't have any longer.

Francis let out a noise of frustration and angrily cast his eyes back towards the window again. Everyone in this damn home was suspect, even those in the kitchen; how many people could be working together? The only fucking one who wasn't, wasn't here. Whilst guaranteeing Arthur's innocence, his absence also left Francis vulnerable and alone. He let out a long sigh. This wasn't about paranoid delusions or fears of an old man any more, this was a real threat and Francis knew that he didn't have long left to think about pride or consequences. He needed to talk to someone who he knew wouldn't turn against him and something strong and unquestionable in his gut told in that that person was Arthur. He needed to call Arthur for advice or for his return and either one he needed _today._

'Francis?' Emma stuck her head from around the door. He quickly and discreetly nudged the case with his zimmer so that the gashes were hidden as he shifted to face her.

'The tarts are okay to come out, I thought I'd let you come and see them…are you okay? You look pale.'

She came forward and rubbed her hands on her apron worriedly.

He tried to smile for her, but had a sinking feeling that it turned more into a grimace instead. 'I'm fine, just a bit tired from standing up for so long, that's all.'

She looked doubtful. 'Are you sure? I think I should tell somebody…' She cast her eyes about the dishevelled room in concern.

'No! Please,' he gave a weak laugh, 'they'll just panic and pump me with pills; honestly Emma, my darling.' He caught her gazing at the books on the bed. 'I'm perfectly fine, but I do seem to have made a bit of a mess looking for one of my cookbooks, no? Now!' He clapped his hands and motioned for her to come closer. 'You have the opportunity to make a beautiful old man very happy, so would you be a darling and help me up? Not that I don't trust your skills at all, my sweet, but those tarts have a very delicate pastry and I need to check that they're okay.'

Emma rolled her eyes and grinned, but came over anyway. 'You, Mr Bonnefoy, are utterly horrid, you know that, yes?'

She supported him as he stood and a dollop of his old pride around women resurfaced and forced him to try to appear as strong as possible by barely using her to stand. 'Yes, yes, I've been made aware. Now, please do me the honours.' Arm linked in hers, he allowed her to lead him from the room without looking back.

 

* * *

Francis spent the afternoon trying to act as though everything was okay whilst also planning a way to somehow contact Arthur.

His tarts, of course, were perfect, and he spent a while fussing in the kitchen and eating some with kitchen workers to keep up appearances. Emma kept an eye on him for a while but, seeing no other symptoms she should be worried about, eventually let the matter drop and left him alone. After being scolded for ruining appetites, he was shooed out of the kitchen and told to get ready for lunch. The corridor he was ushered to was once more, empty. The residents were congregated in the main room, and from where he stood to his left he could already see most of them either seated or in the process of being so around the large tables that had been moved away from the walls to the middle of the room. The carers, still being smaller in number than usual, were all out in force to try and get things to run smoothly. Now was a good a time as any.

Ignoring the calls for dinner and the smells from the kitchen, Francis pulled away to the right. Passing his room, his door was slightly jar as he'd left it, he didn't break stride to either check its safety or alert any activity inside to what he was up to. On approaching the T split in the corridor, he turned right again towards the direction of the staff room which lay at the end of the corridor, tucked out of the way.

Francis had never been inside before; he'd never had any reason to, and he now found himself cautious. He didn't really have a plan in mind; finding the right time and finding it fast had occupied most of his thoughts but he was hoping that there was an emergency contact or a home number list for carers that he could use somewhere inside.

The room was what he expected it to be. Staff didn't spend much time in here and it was sparely decorated like the rest of the home with few personal touches. It was a large open plan room, with a small kitchen area with a fridge, some cupboards and a microwave in one half and some lockers and coat pegs in the other side with some faded, well used blue sofas in the middle of the room turned towards a small TV. There was a whiteboard taking up a large part of one cream wall, with residents' names written in groups of colours down one side and a series of ticks going along the length, probably for different pills or schedules they needed. There was also a cork-board on another wall with a sheet of what seemed to be shift times and some post-it notes to fellow workers.

Francis decided to check the cork-board first. The shift times, although useful as to who was in when, had no mentions of personal staff details. The drawers under the TV were just as helpful, he found a ledger of resident details from the opening of the home until today with their needs, medical history and family contacts but again nothing about the staff who worked for them.

He was starting to become anxious; he was running out of time before someone noticed he wasn't on his way to lunch and would come looking for him. He couldn't really think of an explanation for if he was found leafing through the staffroom either. He quickly scanned the rest of the living room and the kitchen area and after finding nothing moved to the cloakroom part. He had no intention of going through employee belongings, but even nosing in the area made him feel uncomfortable and his quick search of the walls turned up nothing. Despairingly, he gave one last turn to scan the whole room, hoping that something would turn up, but no luck. Accepting defeat for now he turned to leave to leave and let out a cry of surprise as he spotted a notice on the back of the door. Feeling stupid for having not checked earlier, he moved to have a closer look. It was a list of staff names in what appeared to be in order of start of employment, with Amélie at the bottom and Arthur just above her and names right at the top which had been scored through. A series of numbers were beside each name, probably home and mobile numbers and Francis hurried back to the sofa space to grab a pen and piece of note paper.

After quickly scribbling the numbers next to Arthur on a post-it he pocketed the paper, slipped back into the hall and smoothed his face into an innocent looking expression as he walked to lunch.

 

* * *

The actual finding of a phone wasn't going to be a problem. There was one in the main lounge area, and one in the T of every corridor. They were available for residents to use to call relatives or friends and, if questioned, Francis could easily pass off his call as being one to a cousin of his. To his great relief, no one questioned his lateness to lunch and his excuse of being in the bathroom went unused.

After eating, he excused himself as soon as he could without appearing too sneaky and made his way to the phone in the T by the staff room. He dialled what seemed like the mobile number first, but there was no answer. Hoping that someone would pick up, he dialled the second number.

' _Hello?'_

It wasn't Arthur. ' _Can I help you?'_

The voice was speaking in English but had a very strong accent that was different to Arthur's; Francis decided to hope that it was a friend or family member and the number was correct.

'Hello? Can I speak with Arthur please?'

He spoke in French, knowing nothing else and hoping that if it was someone Arthur knew, they'd realise it was someone from work and would pass the phone along.

' _May I ask who's calling?'_

To Francis' surprise, the voice answered in French, albeit with what he could now tell what a Scottish lilt. At least this confirmed the number matched Arthur.

'It's someone from his work, is he available?'

'…. _He's been given some time off to recover; I'm afraid he's resting at the moment. Would you like to leave a message with me?'_

'No, please,' he could feel the desperation from being so close and yet so far leaking into his voice and he tried to pull it back. 'It's extremely important; I have to talk to him.'

' _Look.'_ The other person sounded like they were getting frustrated. ' _I'm very sorry, but he'll be back soon, you can talk to him then.'_

The clock on the wall in front of him read 1:38pm; he didn't have _time_ for this. 'This is an urgent matter, please just pass the phone along so I can have a quick word and then I'll leave him alone.' Even if Arthur refused to come back, at least talking to another person would help him put a perspective on things and how was best to act, he knew it would be utterly stupid to keep this to himself now.

There was talking in the background and a swear, followed by angry mutterings in English before the airway was filled with rustling and a new voice came on the phone.

' _Hello? It's Arthur.'_

_Oh thank God…_ 'Arthur? It's me, Francis.'

' _Francis? Why'r-... what's wrong?'_ He, rightly, sounded bewildered; obviously expecting a co-worker.

'I know I shouldn't be calling you out of the blue but something's happened and I need your advice, right now.'

Arthur sighed down the phone. ' _Francis…can't you have waited? I'm sure Annette can help you as well, whatever it is.'_

'No it's not something…' He paused, frustrated at himself for not being able to articulate as quickly as his mind needed him to. 'Someone has been breaking into my room for the last week or so but today they've tried to break into my briefcase; the locked on in the corner, and I- I don't know if you know anyone or anything as to _why_ this is happening but I stupidly don't feel _safe_ about this and I wondered if you had any suggestions at all?' He paused to collect himself but Arthur offered no interruption. 'I mean, it's only a small incident but it's still serious, no? I may be in a home but it's a personal room with private belongings; is this not attempted theft? Should I go to Julia? Or is this just-'

' _Francis, you must get back to your room.'_

…What?

' _Francis, I need you to listen to me and listen to me carefully. Whatever you do, you are to_ not _let that case out of your sight, do you understand me?'_

Whatever sarcastic response of advice he had been expecting had not come; he'd not planned for Arthur to take him seriously from the offset.

'But I?'

' _For fuck sake Francis!'_ Arthur's voice had risen and Francis found himself gripping the phone tight to his ear; heart starting to pound in his chest. _'This is more serious than you know and I need you to trust me and for once just do as I ask. Go back to your room_ right now _and stay there; no matter what.'_

'Arthur-'

' _No matter what! Any fucking excuse, any fucking reason, just stay there and look after that case! I don't care how you do it, but until I get back there there's a damn high chance that something's going to go very bloody wrong.'_ There were other noises in the background as if Arthur was moving about the room; footfalls were quick and harsh on a carpeted floor. An exasperated voice called his name but he carried on talking. ' _I'm coming back; I'm only in Calais so I should be back by tonight; shit, I can't believe this!'_

Arthur stopped moving, probably realising that Francis hadn't spoken in a while. ' _Francis? You still there?'_

He swallowed. 'Yes.'

' _Do you understand me?'_

'Unfortunately I do.'

' _I know it's a lot but I need you to trust me. I'll see you soon.'_ He clicked off and Francis found himself focusing on a steady dial tone. Breathing deeply, he gently set the phone back in its cradle and glanced towards the door to his room. It was strange, but Francis did trust him; by mirroring his own fears, Arthur had confirmed the theory that this was more than just a petty break-in; this was something serious that for whatever reason involved the risk of Francis' life. Something deep down in his gut instinct told him to trust Arthur and having no other options right now, Francis decided to act on the chance that his gut was right.

There was nothing for it, the case was important and Francis needed to make sure it stayed with him.

* * *

Francis informed Jacques, who was on duty in the communal area, that he was going to go and read in his room. Although confident that for at least a time he was safe, Francis still shut and locked the window from the inside and closed his door before settling gingerly in his chair. Before he sat down, he'd moved the case so that it rested between his legs, thus alerting him to any disturbances to it. He planned to sleep quickly; a short nap to give him energy he knew he'd need later if he ended up laying awake at night on guard.

Although weary, he was too aware of himself and the case to drop asleep. He shifted about, his neck became uncomfortable in one position if it stayed there for too long and the weight of the case on his legs was a constant reminder of the situation. He shut his eyes tight and concentrated on his breathing; steady breaths in and slow, deep ones out again. His lungs felt free and the heaviness of age seemed to have lifted in the moment, caught and snatched by the adrenaline thrumming through his veins. 

* * *

_He was in a large room which was empty apart from himself and one other person. The dream was darkened, but he knew there to be large, brilliant windows which lined the room and beautiful statues and old damask chairs beside windowsills, with painting in ornate gilded frames hung from the walls. It was warm; a musty radiator smell filled the air that made the room cold and reserved in manner. The long, formal room filled with familiar, cosy smells juxtaposed and did nothing make him feel comfortable or at ease._

_He spoke with a tall man with a mop of dark hair; long and lanky he stood opposite Francis speaking and moving with the grace of a politician. 'You can help me then, yes?' He tilted his head, a smile pulling at his lips._

_Francis laughed. 'Of course I can try, but I'm not as close to him as you seem to think I am.'_

_The man held out a case he'd been carrying. He passed it to Francis and he held its heavy weight carefully._

' _You know what this is, don't you?'_

_Francis shook his head and stroked his hand across the old leather._

' _Don't lie!' Francis' eyes snapped up and locked with his companion's. He now stood tense, eyes cold and stare unwavering. 'Do not, Sir, lie to me.'_

' _I'm not lying?' Francis sounded confused to his own ears_

_Anger, sudden thick, intense anger poured from every part of the other man; his hands clenched and he tightened his jaw, head erect and chin up with cold eyes that were twisted into a scowl of such intense anger than Francis had to stop himself from stepping back. The change was so swift that it threw Francis off his mental track before his mind stuttered further to a stop at a quick flash of metal. A loud shout, Francis throwing the case away and then a sudden bang followed by a pressure that hot him square in the chest. The ceiling swung back as he fell to the floor, the wooden boards greeting his back and forcing the air from his lungs._

* * *

'Mr Bonnefoy!'

Francis woke with a strangled gasp. Annette was shaking his shoulder violently and her face looked uncharacteristically worried. He fought to quickly control his breathing and quell his shaking before she noticed anything. He left one hand clutching the area above his heart. 'Madame, what on earth do you think you're doing?'

'I came in to check on you, are you alright? Let me read your pulse-'

Francis batted her hand away as she tried to latch onto his wrist. 'I am fine, Annette, I must have fallen asleep reading; did you need to wake me up so violently?'

She drew back with a huff and Francis thanked his stars that she was as easy to rile as Arthur. 'You looked as though you were having a nightmare so I thought it'd be best to wake you, taking into consideration as well, sir, that sleeping during the day will do no wonders to your sleep schedule at night, not to mention that we've just settled it into a nice rhythm again.'

Francis refrained from mentioning that it was _he_ who was sleeping regularly again; she had done nothing to aid it at all. 'Well thank you, I can't help but be awake now.'

Annette bristled. 'No need to be so short with me Mr Bonnefoy, I'm only doing what's best for you.' She glanced at the watch on her wrist. 'If you can stay awake for just forty five more minutes, you'll be able to get something for dinner. I trust that you'll be able to do that, of course.'

Francis braced himself. 'I'd prefer to eat in here, if that's okay.'

Annette stared at him. 'In here? Are you not feeling well, Mr Bonnefoy?'

Francis shook his head but wasn't given time to answer before Annette spoke up again, monotonous voice dutifully reciting what he already knew. 'Residents all eat together; unless you have good reason to think of yourself as deserving special treatment I'm afraid you're going to have to come and join the rest.'

Francis quickly pulled up the first excuse he could think of. 'I had a minor… confrontation with Mrs Dubois the other day-'

Annette held up her hand before he could say much more and gave him a disapproving stare. 'You wish to stay in here because you are scared of a female resident, is that correct?'

Francis swallowed his pride, Arthur's words ringing in his ears. He shuffled in his chair and tried his hardest not to care about his reputation too much. Looking Annette in the eye, he tried to be as convincing as possible. 'I wouldn't say _scared…_ ' He folded his hands together and held his head up straighter. 'More, _concerned_ for her mental well-being, should I eat with her. I cannot guarantee my good behaviour when that detestable woman shovels food into her face like a _boar-'_

It worked, Annette huffed at him for antagonising fellow residents but let him be for this night and this night only; tomorrow he was to make amends and behave in a manner fit for his age. He shuffled the weight of the case from one leg and back again.

It was 6:30 and Arthur was still not here. 

* * *

At eight, Jacques came to help him bathe. This was something Francis knew he wouldn't be able to get out of, and so allowed the orderly to help bathe him, something he was usually against, with the sole intention of returning to his room as quickly as possible. If Jacques noticed anything off about his behaviour, such as his determination to be no longer than ten minutes, he didn't say anything and for that Francis was grateful but also a little concerned. Shouldn't staff be more attentive to patients' regular behaviours? Or was Jacques aware of what happened to his case and had decided not to give the game away in any way? Francis new he was over analysing things but he couldn't help himself and wouldn't relax until he was back in his room, teeth brushed as well, and had set his own eyes back on the case. He found upon his return that, although still scratched, it was otherwise untouched.

He stayed in his room for the rest of the evening, refusing to leave his room or interact with other residents at all. For the most part, staff gave him odd looks but didn't question him too much.

It was half nine at night and Arthur was still not here.

Annette was getting him ready for bed, and handed him his brush so that he could look after his hair. Francis knew she disapproved of its length but that only made him more determined than ever to keep it in the style he'd always had. It made him feel as though he were still Francis and, although grey, he still loved it and cared for it as much as he always had. Regardless of what Arthur had told him, he was well aware he wasn't going bald, although certain thinning areas were making him worry.

On normal evenings, Francis would spend a short while doing his hair and then do anything he could to get ready quickly and get either Arthur or Annette out of his room so he could be left alone to sleep or read a bit if they were feeling generous, which was rare. Tonight, however, he wanted the company after spending the whole day alone, but more than that he really wanted to not be alone this night.

He knew that there were other residents were being put to bed and the night shift workers were yet to fully arrive, so the home was still buzzing with activity and noise. That, meant safety. The sooner things went quiet, the sooner Francis would find himself in danger.

After being dressed and taking his nightly medicine, Francis requested to be allowed to read for a bit. Annette huffed from where she was locking his windows shut. 'This is because you took that nap earlier and now you're not tired; I do hope you haven't undone all of the work that we've been doing.'

Francis gave her a thin smile. 'I do hope not.'

Despite being clearly annoyed at him, she did allow him to read until the full night shift had arrived and put him to bed, a notice she said she'd make sure to write on the staff board on her way out. As it was now ten, she was due to leave and bade him farewell before exiting and leaving his door ajar.

Francis lay back against the pillows, book in hand and listened to her footsteps disappearing down the corridor. Sighing, he placed the book on the bedside table and took a sip of water from the glass that was there. There was no point in him trying to read, he couldn't concentrate for long enough. Laying quietly, left comfortably upright, he listened to the sounds of the home for a while. He could hear cars driving off and the soft rustle of the wind in the trees, as well as the soft footfalls of the night staff and the swift dance of the hall light as they passed by his door.

It was quarter to eleven, and Arthur was _still_ not here. From Calais to Aunis, there was at least a seven hour drive but even if he'd left at two, Arthur should have at least been here by now. All things considered, at the moment Francis was oddly relaxed, perhaps owing to his accomplishment at watching over the case successfully for the rest of the day, but that changed abruptly when Jean stuck his head around the door.

'Francis!' He greeted him cheerily and moved fully into the room. 'Annette has been lamenting that you've ruined all of her hard work, if it's true I'm going to have to congratulate you.'

Francis grinned. 'I may have had a nap earlier; apparently that ruined my sleep.'

Jean laughed softly and rested a hand on his hip. 'Well, the note she left me hinted at a far more diabolical action, but you succeeded in annoying her anyway, so congrats.'

He leant down to the cord by the bed and began to tilt Francis downwards, but was stopped by Francis holding onto his arm. 'Could you leave me slightly up? My chest is a bit tight tonight.'

Jean raised an eyebrow but complied, leaving the bed tilted lower than before but high enough so that Francis could stare straight at the window without raising his head.

'Tight as in, "I should be worried" tight, or tight as in, "hey it's one of those things" tight?'

Francis was quick to reassure him. 'Nothing serious, this is just more comfortable for tonight it seems.'

Jean clapped his hands together before rubbing them. 'Okay then, I hope you've enjoyed your late night entertainment, but if I don't make you go to bed now Annette will hang me out to dry come morning.' With that he grinned, and turned off the light before shutting the door as Francis responded with a farewell.

Terror made itself known in his stomach with the click of the door. He strained his ear to listen for sounds; everything amplified and exaggerated by his concentration. Jean's footsteps receded, and then there was nothing save for the wind in the trees and the sound of his own rigidly controlled breathing. Even though the danger was still there when left alone with a carer, it grew exuberantly once alone, he couldn't even be distracted by chatter or by night time activities; now he had nothing to focus on but his own situation and how it grew worse the quieter and later the night became.

He managed to stay awake for half an hour just by waiting; adrenaline pumped by his heart fast throughout his body kept him expecting something to happen at any moment, for a hand to appear on the window, for a footfall to stop outside his door, for the rustle of the bushes outside his window as they were disturbed, anything that would mean he needed to attract help; if there was help to be had with the people present that is.

Slowly and against his will, his hands began to relax from where they gripped the bars on either side of his bed and his breathing steadied before merging into deep, even breaths. He tried to keep himself awake by remembering the fear he felt earlier and about how important it apparently was that his case remained safe. Despite his best efforts he found his eyes growing gradually heavier and the last thing he remembered seeing was the chink in the curtains filtering in a smidgen of moonlight. 

* * *

' _I know you're lying! I know that you know what's inside, I saw you! This is a possible threat to our_ _nation; why do you not care? How DARE you lie, and think that you can trick me!'_

_The man plunged his hand into his pocket and whipped out a gun before Francis even had time to react. He threw away the case; throwing it to safety away from the shot before a sharp bang filled his ears and his senses overloaded with the pressure and pain that rocketed through his chest, burning into his heart. The ceiling swung as he fell backwards, and he fought to keep the air in his lungs as his back cracked against the floor. His vision went black and he remembered nothing else._

* * *

Francis awoke to a crash of glass.

Snapping his eyes open and jerking his head up, he briefly saw a black shape lunge towards him, leather gloves holding a pillow taut between them. Something slammed into his face and his brain registered the lack of air intake before his lungs even had the chance to begin to burn. Terror overloaded his entire system; he kicked and bucked as widely as he could but a black mist was drifting inwards from the edges of his vision as his hands tried to frantically claw a way to get to fresh air.

Eventually his limbs grew too sluggish and uncooperative and his lungs felt as though they were on fire; he thought of the case and then Francis Bonnefoy thought no more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Thank you very much for reading, I hope the pace is picking up a bit! Thank you to those who are sticking with me, and welcome to those of you who are new! Please drop me a review just to let me know what you thought in general or if you have any improvements; any critique helps!
> 
> See you soon!


	4. Paranoia Builds Distrust

Paranoia Builds Distrust

_One of Francis’ first memories was from a time when he was really young, maybe about five or six years old, when his parents had taken him for a day trip to the beach nearest their house in Archiac._ _He must have been to a beach beforehand because he does not remember being at all surprised by the sand between his toes and nor does he remember being scared of the waves as they grew and receded from the shoreline. He was, however, still fascinated by the water itself and the way it seemed to pull and push against the sand, in a steady and constant rhythm with a body that seemed so large that Francis easily believed that this was the edge of the world. He remembers staring out at the ocean, watching the glint of the water and enjoying the smell of the sea whilst waiting for his dad to come back with ice creams before he became aware that he was being watched._

_He remembers freezing; locking himself still as his muscles froze against his will and his ears muted his surroundings. Humans still have an innate ability, left over from far more dangerous days, of sensing another’s gaze on them. Evil intentions or no, people are intrinsically able to sense, most of the time, that they are being studied and this goes hand in hand with the feeling that something is not quite right. No matter the age, the personality or the circumstances, the creeping feeling that something is wrong is always the same; everything seems to sharpen and focus as the senses strain to single out the location or reason for the trigger. Adults are good at ignoring this instinct and dismiss the gut-feeling, knowing that sometimes the mind jumps to irrational conclusions, bypassing often accurate instinct for cultural logic._

_Children, fortunately, are not born with this logic. Gingerly, Francis turned his head to scan the beach but found no one who stood out; no one with their eyes trained his way and no one lurking menacingly in the clumps of parents and children near him. Yet the feeling remained and he started to grow scared and anxious. Then, as swiftly as it appeared, the spell was broken by his father reappearing; the world crashed back into real time, background noise returned and Francis quickly concentrated on his new priority. He switched focus quickly, as all children do, as his need changed and the day continued happily. Yet throughout his life, for some reason, Francis was never able to forget the memory entirely and as time subdued and blurred facts, faces and details of most snippets of random everyday life, those banal 5 seconds remained crystal clear._

* * *

The first thing Francis became aware of was that he was moving. Within milliseconds after realising this, his lungs remembered their trauma and he gave a great gasp, throwing his head back against something and hands lurching to scrabble for his face.

_‘Jesus fucking Christ!’_ The movement swerved sharply, with it his head lolling uselessly left, before stabilising again but Francis could register little else; his eyes hadn’t yet wrestled back control and remained screwed tightly shut with panic pounding through him.

‘Francis! Francis for fuck’s sake, breathe! Can you hear me? Deep breath in for me. _Shit_.’

Absentmindedly, Francis realised it was Arthur speaking and after a few harsh, desperate breaths in, he was calm enough to open his eyes and slump forward slightly, tucking his chin into his chest. He was in a car, his face hurt and it was no longer night-time but early morning; the light was dim and blue but enough for him to see that he was being driven along a motorway, once he had the presence of mind to glance up again.

‘Are you alright now?’ Arthur’s voice came, surprisingly, from his right.

‘What the hell happened.’ He managed to croak out, ignoring the question and glancing over at Arthur.

The Englishman had his mouth pulled into a thin tense line and hesitated a bit before answering. ‘Well, for one I told you to guard the damn case.’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t realise falling asleep was another denotation of ‘guard’, but when you look at French military history it makes a bit more sen-.’

‘Arthur, I’m being serious!’ Francis voice couldn’t get much higher than a croak and the louder he tried to go the more he sounded like a half deflated balloon being sat on.

‘I’m sorry, I’m-,’ Arthur sighed and slumped his shoulders, ‘I’m just cross with myself.’

‘Why? What have you done?’ Francis tried to catch Arthur’s eye but his gaze was fixed straight ahead, unmoving.

Arthur gave a small, humourless laugh as a response. ‘It’s not so much what I did; it’s what I failed to do.’ He took one hand from the wheel and gave it a slight wave as it to bat away the conversation. ‘Anyway, what do you remember?’

‘I sat in my room all day after I rang you; I stayed awake until at least half 11, I think.’ Francis brought a hand to his face and gingerly began to explore the damage. His nose, whilst very tender, thankfully wasn’t broken. Although it hurt to take breathe too deeply and his face was a bit bruised, he was otherwise unharmed. ‘The last thing I remember is being woken by the sound of a crash, like a window, and someone smothering me with a pillow.’

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Arthur give a slight nod. ‘Yes, that’s what I arrived to.’

Sudden, irrational anger rose in Francis’ chest. ‘And where were you? You said you wouldn’t be long but you were nearly three hours late! Do you have any idea how-,’ even now, Francis’ pride wouldn’t let him admit that he was scared; a better word would be petrified, really, but Francis was even less likely to admit to that, ‘how _on edge_ you made me? Sitting there alone all day, paranoid about God knows what or who with nothing to go on other than “guard a God damn _case”_!?’ His voice broke far too often for his liking but his previous terror gave him more volume than he thought he was able to produce.

Arthur scowled but still didn’t turn to look at him, instead flicking his eyes upwards at the rear-view mirror and changing lanes, speeding them up slightly. ‘Well I was right, wasn’t I? It’s not as though I warned you unnecessarily. And I _was_ getting there as fast as I could; I was caught in this huge traffic jam that brought us to a standstill for hours because a lorry had overturned.’

Francis felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rise up in his throat and escape from him in a quick burst before he could contain himself. ‘Oh, well that’s all right then, isn’t it.’

He heard Arthur give a deep, long sigh through his nose as though trying to calm himself. ‘Look I- Francis, I got there as fast as I could and I’m sorry that I couldn’t prevent you from being attacked but seeing as you’re still breathing I don’t think I did too bad a job, overall.’ He gave a huff and allowed what could be interpreted as an expression of worry on his face before settling back into impassiveness.

A thick silence settled on the car while Francis’ mind caught up with him.

He hated to, but Francis was the first to break it. ‘Thank you, then. For coming and for saving me; I’m grateful.’ Arthur, whilst being later than Francis was expecting, _did_ turn up and _did_ save him from being murdered.

Instead of the furious downgrade of thanks or an insult on Francis’ behalf to deflect the comment, Arthur remained stoically silent. His eyebrows moved and the skin around his eyes tightened to form a brief look of what seemed to be regret or denial and he opened his mouth slightly before closing it again, looking sad. A small pause. ‘No problem.’

Silence fell between them and as much as Francis looked at him Arthur didn’t take his eyes off the road or change expression, remaining melancholy and even slightly small; back leaning heavily in his chair rather than ram-rod straight and shoulders still slumped but tight. Astonishingly, he looked conflicted between guilty, of all things, and regretful; two things Francis couldn’t ever imagine the proud and stubborn Arthur being.

Francis, ashamed and also guilty about his outburst and the effect that it had, waited for an Arthur he could recognise to return and produce the reaction he was looking for, but when it became apparent that none would be forthcoming he broke the silence again. ‘So’, he slid his eyes from the younger man to glance at the windshield. ‘Would you mind filling me in a bit more on happened after you arrived?’

Arthur said nothing straight away but settled his hand on the gear stick, drumming fingers lightly on the top and seemingly trying to settle on the best way to answer. Eventually, he did and revealed that it was a night more full of odd occurrences than any other. For starters, there had been very little staff on duty.

‘It was actually extremely easy to slip in;’ Arthur explained, ‘I knew I had to be quiet and not make a fuss in case there was someone dangerous prowling about or it turned out to be a false alarm, but there wasn’t much need; the corridors were basically deserted.’ The security features had also been turned off and Arthur hadn’t needed to use his door card or password to access the main gates or doors of the resident’s building where Francis stayed.

‘Of all the things, it was that which worries me the most.’ The sun had risen slightly now as they travelled through the French main roads north; the sky was full of clouds promising rain but it was bright allowing Francis, with his deteriorating eyesight, to see his companion more clearly. Arthur was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt; obviously grabbed and dressed in a hurry if his hair and general harried appearance were anything to go by. Although Francis realised a while ago that Arthur must be driving a British car, it was still strange to think of the wheel of the car in a different place from what he was used to. ‘It means that this wasn’t an outside attack but someone inside who knows the buildings and security systems well; who or how many, though, God only knows.’

Francis was surprised about how much feeling this evoked from him; how _sad_ and betrayed this made him feel. Although he’d known that the most logical suspect would have to have been an employee of the home, he found he’d been hoping for someone or something to be a cause instead, anything for it not to be the people he spent so much time with and had grudgingly grown fond of.

Arthur had therefore, after arriving at around 2 and nearly five hours later than he’d expected, parked his car out of sight of security cameras and had walked his way casually to the main gate, before driving his car inside to the staff car park cautiously after finding it unlocked. Then he tried to sneak his way to the main doors, before breaking into a run upon finding them completely open and unprotected.

In one of the corridors, Arthur had hidden in a store cupboard after hearing footsteps. But, after seeing that it was the uniform of a residential orderly, he’d relaxed; hoping that perhaps the security systems or electricity had merely malfunctioned and someone had popped out to call an electrician; leaving the doors electronically open. Thus, he ended up after a quick walk through the dimly lit corridors to Francis’ room where he entered just in time to see someone masked slam the pillow, hastily grabbed from the foot of Francis’ bed, onto his face and attempt to smother him.

‘What happened then?’ Arthur had paused but opened his mouth as if to speak before shutting it closed again. He glanced at Francis, the first time Francis himself had seen him do so since he’d regained consciousness, and looked him dead in the eye before looking back to the road, almost as if he’d had to visibly judge whether he was ready for the answer. His face had looked controlled and calm, as though the stress and panic had completely wiped away the old Arthur and now allowed him to wear a mask of calm, apathetic rationality; a stranger.

‘I shot him.’

A mix of what felt like rage, fear and suspicion moved his tongue and formed the basis of Francis’ next few words. ‘Yo- _shot?!_ You shot him? Dead?’ These fears grew in intensity when Arthur allowed himself a small shrug of, in Francis’ opinion, dismissal.

‘There was nothing else I could do, Francis; he was attacking you and I couldn’t jump him and try to restrain him in case he had accomplices and the noise alerted them. I’d brought a gun just in case there was real danger to protect myself and as soon as I saw what was going on I just did it; automatically.’ Arthur was pressing his fingers hard on the steering wheel; a small, white knuckled gesture which served as the only indication of emotion, the rest heavily hidden in a staunch deadlock. ‘After that I just grabbed you and the case before running out to the car. We’ve been driving ever since.’

Francis felt a quick surge of sick relief to know that not only were his fears of danger justified but that the person who had been causing them was no longer a threat. He was instead afraid of how emotionless Arthur was being about the whole thing.

‘Are- are they dead?’

Arthur worried his lip. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t really think about my aim, I just,’ he indicated with his head uselessly, ‘did it. Maybe. I don’t honestly know, it happened too fast.’

They sat in silence for a little while which allowed Francis to mull things over. Their situation, at the moment, seemed to be the worst it could be. There was not only the factor that Arthur may be wanted for possible murder, but there was also the matter that there could now be others wishing to do them both harm; their goal must have extended from ‘grab the case and go’, to kill both of them to silence them, especially seeing as they were willing to kill Francis in the first place even before all of this.

Suddenly, the relief of their momentary safety and worry over their immediate future was soon overridden by his mind latching on to what Arthur had just said.

The case.

_Arthur had also taken the case_.

It was enough that he was willing to come all the way back to Fouras from Calais just to ensure its safety, but for that to be something he focused on after having witnessed attempted murder and then committing the act himself meant that he too was either aware of the contents or at least the importance of the case. He must be, somehow, involved as well.

All at once, Francis’ mind went blank as he struggled to make sense of this and try to figure out where this put him. If Arthur was also involved, did this not mean that Francis was still in danger? Terror momentarily stalled his thoughts but one glance at Arthur calmed him slightly.

Arthur had saved not only the case from being stolen but Francis from being murdered, meaning that surely Arthur was on his side; he wouldn’t hurt him now. If he wished him harm then he could have left him there. But if people were willing to kill over this thing then no matter whose side Francis was on, he was certainly going to be in danger. As for Arthur himself, he could indeed have only saved Francis as an automatic response, or because Francis knew too much, but he’d worked at the home for more than a year; if he wanted to steal it surely he would have done so previously.

Arthur had noticed him glancing at him and raised an eyebrow, looking his way. ‘Francis?’ His voice pulled Francis out of the swirling monologue his mind was creating for him.

He let out a deep, soul weary sigh and resigned himself to his situation. No matter what, this is where he was now and he was going to have to accept it. But that didn’t mean he had to accept it _quietly_. ‘Arthur, what the hell is going on here?’

Arthur frowned and glanced at him again out the corner of his eye.

‘Please,’ Francis heard the desperation leaking into his voice and tried to rein it in a bit, ‘please don’t lie to me, just tell me what’s going on. What the hell is in that case? And what the hell does it have to do with me?’

‘Francis, I promise,’ Arthur’s voice was serious and level, body language calm and controlled, ‘I promise that you are in no danger with me and that I will explain everything else as soon as we can get to somewhere safe.’ He held up a finger as Francis opened his mouth to protest, ‘not because I’m trying to put off telling you, but because it’s a long story that will a lot easier to tell you when we’re both sitting down and when I’m not trying to flee the country and get through customs with a captured OAP in my car. Fair?’

Francis considered his options and crossed his arms before folding his body away; looking out the window at the passing open fields. ‘I suppose I have no choice, do I?’

Arthur hummed and the corner of his mouth twitched, ‘No, not really.’

* * *

_For just a second, the floor felt cold and solid against Francis’ back._

_His vision was gone but the smell of blood was strong and it overpowered his nose, however the only thing he could focus on was the panic fluttering in his heart, panic not for himself but for something else._

_His arms twitched once._

_It was safe. It was safe and that was more important._

_He died almost instantly._

* * *

Francis only managed to nap for what must have been only a few moments when he jolted awake again, brain quickly tearing itself away from his dreams.

The rest of the ride, for the most part, had continued in silence with just the radio playing quietly for background noise. They were heading towards the north, into England, at a pace just under the speed limit in order to appear as casual and as unsuspecting as possible to avoid alerting the authorities. Arthur had decided that the safest place for them both to go was out of the country; as the security systems were down in the home and it was mostly deserted; there was a high chance the CCTV cameras also weren’t working. This meant that Arthur himself may not have been seen by anyone and may be able to avoid repercussions for what had happened, or at least avoid Francis' attackers.

As he explained to Francis, if this was orchestrated by someone from within the home then they probably would have turned all systems off to protect themselves from being caught. In the same way, this luckily also protected Arthur if it were true. Even if he had been seen by someone there that night, it was probably by someone in connection to Francis’ attempted murder and therefore not someone who would be willing to go running to the police anytime soon. Therefore, maybe there was a chance they could escape from this mess, for a while at least.

This obviously left leaving a lot to chance, so they were bypassing Arthur’s home near Fouras and were heading to his family’s holiday home in the south of England in the hope that if Arthur was seen and reported, the authorities in France wouldn’t be able to react in time to stop him getting out and to relative safety. Francis had pointed out that there was always the high possibility of the British authorities getting involved as well, but although Arthur disagreed he refused to elaborate further. Thus, they were now aiming to get to the port of Calais before the French police were alerted on the off chance that Arthur was right.

Despite attempting to flee the country, however, they were trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, which meant that Arthur was driving them at what felt like a dangerously constant and slow speed for two people fleeing a murder scene.

The good thing was that staying at a constant speed meant that they didn’t look very suspicious. Arthur’s car, a ten year old ford, was of a medium size; nothing flashy or expensive looking didn’t catch the eye. Their constant speed didn’t indicate panic, meant that the car ate fuel slower and staying just below the speed limit allowed them to any bypass random stop checks they may have come across.

The bad thing about driving at a constant but slow speed meant that eventually the car was going to run out of petrol and so probably was Arthur before they got very far at all.

He had, after all, taken time off for being unable to get enough rest in the first place and combined with the fact that he’d been driving for around 15 hours going up and down France meant that, despite his stubborn protests, Arthur was going to have to stop somewhere before they got to England or else there was going to be a very messy ending to their pathetic excuse for an escape attempt.

The issue was, Arthur really didn’t want to stop and it was only after Francis had briefly drifted off himself that he realised that this may be a major issue. Blinking away the tiredness resting heavy in his eyes, Francis’ attention was caught by a flashing on the dashboard.

‘The petrol light’s flashing.’

‘I’m _aware,_ Francis.’ Arthur spoke through gritted teeth.

‘Well, I thought you mayn’t know, considering you seem to be ignoring it.’

‘I’m looking for the right place to pull ove-‘

‘We’re in the middle of the God forsaken countryside! Your options are limited, rosbif!’

‘I wanted a service off the motorway! If we’re going to stop somewhere at least it’ll be somewhere out of sight!’

‘Out of sight?’ Francis gave a loud, condescending snap of laughter and stretched his arms in front of him, trying to loosen his stiff joints. ‘Sorry my dear but now it’s the morning and mid week, everywhere you go they’ll be people or cameras. Just do it and get it over with; all we need to do is fill the tank and swap drivers-‘

‘No! No, we are NOT swapping drivers.’ Arthur was scowling, eyebrows drawn low over his eyes. ‘Francis, you can barely _see_.’

_‘_ Well if you’re not going to stop and rest somewhere then you’re just as likely to crash as I am.’

‘For the last damn time, Francis,’ Arthur run his hand through his hair in frustration, ‘I do not need to stop, I’ll be fine but if we can get some caffeine I’ll be even better. We’re over half way. Once we get through customs it’ll be _a_ _doddle_. _O_ _h, how much I liked you better unconscious._ ’

As always, Francis was irritated by both the use of English and his inability to understand it. Regardless, he could sense Arthur probably hadn’t complimented him and chose to respond accordingly. Before the argument could escalate further, however, Arthur gave a quick cry of surprise.

‘There’s a service station on the next turn off! And thank God, it serves coffee.’

Francis hadn’t even seen the sign initially and when he looked it all amassed into a smear of colours. Unwilling to concede, even to himself, that Arthur was right about him being completely unfit to drive, Francis sat up a little more straight and started straightening his night shirt.

He could feel Arthur’s gaze on him. ‘What are you doing?’

Francis tutted and stiffly folded his collar the right way up. ‘No matter how you act or make this seem I’m still a near ninety year old man dressed in bedclothes in the middle of the day in a petrol station abandoned in a field. Maybe in England this could pass for usual but in France this is not an everyday occurrence.’

Arthur said nothing and Francis began considering his trousers. ‘Do you think these would pass off as unassuming?’

Arthur indicated right and pulled into the outside lane. ‘The trousers, luckily, are a dark blue; from a distance hopefully no one will notice how thin they are and your age will help answer the most obvious questions.’

Francis took the time to feel slightly offended.

‘Speaking of light; aren’t you cold?’ Arthur reached out a hand to press it on Francis’ arm, but Francis drew back.

‘I’m fine in here; it’s outside we’ll have to worry about.’

‘True...’ Arthur nodded and left him alone, taking the time to observe Francis’ top.

‘The shirt though...’ Arthur tapped a finger on the wheel, ‘the fact that it’s the same colour makes it obvious. We’re more likely to find something to cover your top half than bottom so I say we try to find you a jumper or something; maybe this place sells clothes?’

Francis thought this highly unlikely but he had a more pressing concern. ‘My cabbage, the thing you’re forgetting is that I have no shoes on. No matter how you dress me, no shoes will be noticed, especially if we make it to the ferry.’

Arthur glanced quickly at Francis’ bare feet, before cursing under his breath in English and indicated again; ready to pull into the service station. ‘There’s nothing much we can do; I’m just going to have to see what they sell. Not only that though, if we don’t get to the UK soon your face will start to bruise where he’s pushed hard on your cheekbones or nose; clothes we can try to hide but bruises will get us instantly called on. We’ll be so damn lucky if we even see the water, let alone cross it.’

* * *

The service station was quiet, but not completely deserted. Cars were dotted about the car park, either close to the shop or closer to the toilets and a mini Starbucks at the other end. A little road pulled off to the left leading to a petrol station, and this is where Arthur drove them first before then nosing the car about into the shopping area. Whilst he was paying in each, Francis tried his best to look as relaxed and casual as he possibly could to avoid gaining unwanted attention. Thankfully he managed to remain ignored by everyone and was successfully un-harassed by the time Arthur returned with his purchases.

‘We must be on a tourist route,’ he said, quickly dumping two shopping bags into the back of the car, ‘lucky for us, really; they not only sold clothes but it didn’t feel out of place for me to buy them.’ Before Francis could say anything in response he was leaving again, slamming the door behind him. He came back next from behind the car; hair slightly damp from presumably washing his face in the toilets’ sink and carrying a disposable cup of what deliciously smelt like coffee. The cup he passed to Francis before dropping himself into the driver’s seat and starting the engine, putting the car in gear and pulling away from the car park, around and up the slip road. From there they entered onto the motorway again and once they were driving straight at a comfortable speed he took the cup back from Francis and took small sip, wincing as the heat scalded his tongue.

‘Serves you right for not getting me any.’

Arthur pressed his burnt tongue tip across his front top teeth. ‘We both know that you’re not allowed caffeine.’

Francis tutted. ‘We’re hardly living by Julia’s rules now, are we?’

Arthur managed to work the lid off with one hand still on the wheel and blew on his drink. ‘Doesn’t matter, if you start seeing toilets for you to use every 15 minutes then I’ll let you have some. Until then, you’re going to have to go without.’ He blew a few more times before taking a long drink and sighing. ‘Good Lord, I needed that.’

Francis made a noise of agreement. ‘You certainly needed it if Starbucks coffee is anything close to drinkable.’

Arthur gave a short laugh and took another drink. ‘Black coffee tastes terrible regardless of where it’s from.’

Francis sniffed disdainfully. ‘Careful my dear, your uncultured side is showing.’

Arthur smirked, ‘Hmm, 2 years of no caffeine at all must really be hurting you.’

Francis said nothing and gave him the cold shoulder, turning to gaze out his window at the flat, northern French countryside. It was becoming apparent that they were heading closer to Calais now.

After nearly ten minutes of driving at the speed limit, Arthur pulled off another slip road onto a country lane, where he pulled over once more in a small layby.

‘And we are here because...?’ Francis watched Arthur with a seed of envy as he unclipped his seatbelt and stretched himself easily around his headrest to reach for the bags in the back seat.

‘Well,’ Arthur grabbed the bags and dumped them in Francis’ lap before opening his door to get out, ‘I didn’t exactly want to dress you in the car park, and I thought it’d be a bit alarming to take you to the toilets looking like that.’

Francis had to admit that it made the most sense. ‘So,’ Arthur continued, opening Francis’ door, ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to deal with getting dressed in a field. I was looking for a toilet on its own somewhere but I think changing out here is probably better.’

Francis wasn’t really listening any more; instead he gave an indignant cry as he reached into the carrier bag to examine his new wardrobe. ‘You drove us here because you knew I would make you take this back, you _heinous_ man!’ He lifted out a bright orange T-shirt adorned with a sunglasses clad yellow sun, undisguised horror on every part of his face. ‘I can’t wear this! I’m supposed to be inconspicuous, you uncultured _idiot;_ why on _earth_ did you think that this monstrosity would be of any use?! _’_

Arthur, the giant _child_ , looked as though he was trying very hard, but ultimately failing miserably, to contain a smirk. ‘I’m afraid that there was nothing else; you had the choice of a pink one with a bucket, spade and a large orange crab, a lovely light blue one that said ‘ _young, fun, and ready for sun!’_ or a bottle green one with a sun lounger and a pool.’ He gave a laugh disguised as a cough; when he next spoke his voice was tight, as though he was trying not to burst out laughing. ‘I looked for a frog one but sadly they were lacking. The tourist track we’re on is obviously one used by beach goers.’

Francis looked up to shoot him a look of complete and utter disgust which prompted Arthur to attempt to pacify him. ‘Oh come on now Francis, if anything, now you just look a cheerful granddad going on holiday.’

Francis dropped the shirt back in the bag with a great show of disdain. ‘How perfect.’ Further inspection of its contents revealed some socks, some over-the-toe sandals, (the two combined convinced Francis finally that Arthur had actually gone out of this way to make Francis look the most hideous he possible could), some fruit bars and a few water bottles. The second bag contained a large, floppy hat and some sunglasses (‘to hide the bruising whilst it’s developing’ supplied Arthur, still looking annoyingly pleased with himself) some painkillers, a neck pillow Francis was actually rather grateful for, and a small, bagged raincoat which, from far away enough, could pass for the same colour as his pyjama trousers. Francis gave a deep sigh through his nose. At least he could cover up the shirt with the coat on the boat. ‘You are never to go shopping for me again.’

Arthur huffed and crossed his arms. ‘Gladly. Though I think I did quite well with a shop full of bobbing dogs and palm trees. Not to mention the lack of any other shops in the middle of the country side; you’d think the government would be more considerate to runaway OAPs, really.’

Francis snarled and threw the sandals at Arthur, which he sadly caught. ‘Just get this over with.’

Arthur flashed him a cheerful, yet malicious looking smile. ‘Of course.’ He piled all of the clothes out of the bags and onto Francis’ lap and, after emptying the dregs on the floor, scrunched up his coffee cup from earlier and placed it inside. Francis resisted the urge to cause hassle and tip the clothes on top of the coffee puddle and dirt, but _my God_ how he wanted to.

Instead, he voiced a worry he had been pondering over for a while. ‘I know that I have been away from the world of independent travel for a while now, but in my day one had to book to get on ferries across the _La Manche._ ’ Francis eyes him as Arthur leant down to undo his buttons.

‘Hopefully it’s sorted.’

‘Hopefully?’

Arthur nodded and helped his arms out of the sleeves. ‘My brother was visiting me yesterday and I asked him to book my car in on one before I left. He messaged me a few hours ago to say that he found us room on one departing at 11:15am so we should get there in enough time; we’ve only got three more hours to go, if the traffic remains as good as this.’

Frustratingly, the top Arthur bought, while baggy, didn’t have buttons. Francis’ arms were stiff, more so after two years of relative inactivity with anything strenuous and the conversation stalled whilst Arthur fought to redress Francis as gently as was possible.

Finally, the top was on and Francis rolled his sore shoulders as much as he could to ease the pain and Arthur moved onto the job of putting on his socks. ‘You know, I had a feeling something was going on.’

Francis’ comment about his shoulders died in his throat and Arthur looked up at him. ‘Again, something I will explain in full once we’re safe. But I had the feeling that something wasn't quite right there,’ he moved onto the other sock and after that slipped the sandals on, ‘little did I know how late I’d left it to do anything about it.’

Ignoring Francis’ shocked gaze, Arthur advised him to try standing to stretch his legs for a bit; they’d been driving for a while and Arthur was growing concerned with how stiff he was starting to get. He helped him out the car and held onto his arm whilst Francis got his balance and collected his thoughts enough to form his own part of the conversation. ‘How late you’d left it? _Arthur,_ this has been going on for only about a week! _No_? Or is there more that you’re not telling me?’

Arthur frowned, ‘A week? You'd noticed something? Why on earth didn’t you say so earlier?’

‘Me?’ Francis cried incredulously as he stepped away from Arthur a few paces. ‘How about you? You knew something was going to happen and you let it? What the hell is wrong with you?!’

Arthur held up a hand, ‘Hey wait a minute! I only had suspicions; I didn’t see anything solid enough to warrant action but just enough for me to know that something odd was going on. I never thought anything would actually _happen_ -‘

‘So you were just waiting for something to happen to me before you decided to do anything?’

Arthur shook his head and looked angry, ‘No! God Francis-’ he run his hands through his hair and rubbed his eyes, ‘God this is becoming ridiculous; you should have told me.’

Francis walked a few more paces away from the Englishman and felt the crisp morning wind ruffle his new shirt. ‘And tell you what? That my case may have moved forward slightly? That my ornaments looked as though they had been pushed aside? That nothing was touched or taken but I felt as though my room and been rifled through?’ Francis gave a dry laugh. ‘You’d just started me on new pills, _my sweet_ _,_ that and I’d been having trouble sleeping, also with night terrors. How was I to know you would even listen to me? What would have been the chance you’d have believed me? How was I to know that there was even something going on at all?’

Francis turned to look behind for Arthur, who had propped himself with his back against the car and was regarding his shoes with crossed arms. ‘Quite high actually, I kept getting the strange feeling there was someone watching you; when you were alone on the bench not too many days ago I thought I saw someone in the bushes.’

Arthur pursed his lips and scowled before continuing. ‘I also kept seeing someone out of the corner of my eye, but never long enough for me actually catch them. I’ve not been sleeping either so I could have been imagining things; but this is what I was there for, Francis, to watch for that sort of thing. I _knew_ someone was wrong but blamed my suspicions on lack of sleep or caused by the tedium of the home and, rather than investigate, I hoped it would go away.’ He gave a dry laugh and straightened up.

He looked over to where Francis stood and considered him for a moment before giving a nod. ‘But I’m sorry; you weren’t to know any of that. Why on earth would you have told me anything anyway?’ He looked away quickly but not before Francis caught a strange look in his eyes.

‘Come on, let’s get going. We’ve got a way to go yet.’

Having no wiser option to go for, Francis walked back towards him and allowed himself to be helped into the car.

* * *

They stopped only once more. After yawning more than three times within two minutes Francis had finally had enough and had continued with his badgering.

‘Arthur, you look worse than I do, and that’s including the bags under my eyes.’

Arthur huffed, ‘Cheers.’

Francis slapped him on the shoulder and Arthur gave a small yelp of surprise. ‘I mean it, you’re nearing 16 hours stuck in a car now and I’ve just survived one brush with death, I certainly don’t want to chance my luck with another.’

‘I’m not going to _crash,_ for fuck sake.’

Francis narrowed his eyes, mentally acknowledging the fact that Arthur seemed to swear a lot more often now than he ever had done before. ‘Your driving is bad enough; tiredness will only make it worse the longer we go on.’

‘My driving isn’t bad!’ Arthur retorted, sounding offended, ‘I’ll have you know that I have no points at all on my- don’t shrug at me!’

Francis raised a still well maintained eyebrow. ‘I really don’t care, you either find somewhere now or I’ll find some way to attract attention.’

For a moment their eyes locked and Arthur seriously considered whether or not Francis was bluffing. He broke the stand-off first though by placing his attention back on the road.

‘I’m not going to a hotel, Francis.’

‘I cannot believe you’re being this stubborn-‘ he was broken off by Arthur trying to smother another yawn. ‘Arthur! _My Lord_ , pull over now, just sleep in the car by the side of the road if you insist; it doesn’t matter.’

‘Fine! Fine, let me just look for something, but I’m only doing this to stop you from whingeing.’

Silence fell between them for a mile or so as Arthur skimmed the road for a turn off or another service station. Eventually, after coming off a slip road and then down a small B road, he found a small turn off with a block of toilets and a small park which allowed him to park up.*

He stopped the car and put it in neutral before leaning back against the headrest and rubbing his eyes. Francis silently thought to himself that Arthur probably didn’t want to let on how tired he was feeling in order to get them out of France faster, but they were just under two hours away from Calais and four-ish hours until their ferry; they could afford to stop and rest for a while.

Smiling smugly, proud of himself for winning this particular argument regardless of what Arthur said, Francis passed him a bottle of water which was taken with a glare.

‘Shut up.’

‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘Shut up.’

Francis grinned wider.

Arthur shook his head and gulped down some water before passing the bottle back to Francis and getting out of the car only to get in again in the back. Shutting the door behind him he laid himself curled up on the back seats and unfolded Francis’ new raincoat to drape over his torso as a make-do blanket. ‘Pass us your neck pillow?’

‘But I’m using it.’

Arthur propped himself higher up on one arm. ‘You need to keep watch; you don’t need it.’

'Admitting you want to sleep?' Francis cooed from the front.

'Admitting that your neck is too old to hold up your fat head?'

With a snarl, Francis conceded and twisted as far as he could go to throw it at Arthur who caught it quickly before laying his head down, giving an audible sigh of relief as he shut his eyes.

Francis grinned again.

‘Shut up.’

‘I didn’t say anything, dear _.’_

‘I can feel you gloating.’

Arthur rolled onto his side and cracked open and eye to stare at Francis. ‘Keep an eye out and wake me in an hour.’

‘An hour?’

Arthur shut his eye and nodded. ‘It’ll give us about an hour and a half to play with in case of traffic.’

Francis huffed and turned back to look out of the windows. ‘We don’t need that much time, you’re being overly cautious.’

After a while of silence and no argumentative response Francis glanced in the rear-view mirror to see that Arthur had quickly fallen fast asleep; breaths deep and even and face finally relaxed. He hadn’t realised how young Arthur looked, he acted so much older but he couldn't be older than his mid twenties.

Already sure that he wasn’t going to wake Arthur up before at least an hour and a half had passed, Francis settled further down in his seat and trained his eyes on the road in the wing mirrors and front windows.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why, hello! Yes, I am still alive! This chapter took so long because there's so much important stuff to write but in a very boring and unexciting location. Capturing the scene itself and the characters' emotions was also quite hard; the two combined together meant that this whole thing took ages just to produce even a few lines at a time sometimes. I also had a dissertation of 10,000 words to write and research for my final year at uni, so the thought of writing this before such an important essay made me guilty enough to do some real work and not get distracted. So, I'm sorry for the relative dullness.
> 
> But! I did manage to write it in the end and I wrote so much that I've actually had to break it into two chapters where the most exciting part happens in the next chapter. Please stick around and trust me! 
> 
> As always, thanks very much for reading! Please let me know what you think,
> 
> Heroes
> 
> *These places do exist, I stopped at many during a drive through France when I was younger. The ones with parks were always the best, but usually they were just a car park, a few benches with tables and a building for the toilets. We don't really have them in England; here they're usually accompanied by a petrol station with a shop or shopping centre and some even have huge food courst with KFC, Costa and other such glorious places, rather than just a toilet.


	5. Your Life is Never Truly your Own

 Your Life is Never Truly your own

 

_He was wet and cold; he felt as though he'd never been this cold before, even though he knew it probably wasn’t true. He could feel the bone biting chill seep right into his bones and trickle down to settle into his very soul so that he felt numb all over; a tin man made of leaden limbs who couldn’t remember ever feeling the warmth of the sun. He turned his head automatically at the approaching sound of the squelching mud that alerted him of someone coming closer and was met by another man slightly taller than he who stood next to him, brushing his shoulder with his bit-too-big-coat._

_It had fitten him once._

_He felt the mud trapped in his boots sift between his toes as he shifted weight from one foot to another and turned his gaze forwards again, across desolate, murky fields._

_The lighting was so dim, and encompassed so much, that he could hardly make out the other’s features when he had glanced at him, but could see the sorry state of his long hair shrouding tired eyes and it saddened him. ‘How can you all do this so much?’ The other asked in a quiet whisper, as if he is afraid to break the silence._

_His French has an accent Francis can’t place. ‘Ah, but that’s the thing,’ the words are dragged out of his lips slowly and in one, long breath; he scarcely has the energy to breathe any more, ‘this is something completely new.’_

_The other man joins him in silence again and together they survey the pot-holed field before them, peering over a wall of packed earth._

_Silence covers the land like a thick and restricting blanket but they both know better than to take it for granted; Francis’ ears still ring with guns and his hands shake from something worse than cold._

_The top of the sun scrapes the horizon and a small brush of light graces the clouds to cause Francis’ heart to quicken and a weight lifts as he focuses on the pale glow and the normalcy of the whole thing. It lasts but a few minutes; soon shouts call alerts._

_They break apart and move onward._

* * *

Francis woke up when the car stopped. They’d been driving almost continuously since Arthur’s nap and they’d progressed with the rest of their journey uninterrupted, allowing Francis to doze off again on his reclaimed neck pillow.

‘Are we there?’ He groggily lifted his head from where it was rested, pillow slung around his shoulders. His chest felt terribly tight and he shifted about, trying to ease the pressure.

Arthur must have noticed because an arm slipped around his back and helped him right himself. ‘If by there, you mean Calais.’ Arthur helped Francis sit up more and the minimal relief it gave his lungs was a comfort nonetheless. Francis looked about to see that they were parked in a queue of cars, waiting for their turn to board the ferry. ‘Customs?’

Arthur gave a derisive laugh that denoted previous bad experiences. ‘We’ve got to go there in a bit. Or, I will, in any case; I’ll try to bring someone out to you.’

Francis bristled. ‘I can _walk_ you know.’

Arthur propped his elbow on the window of his door and rested his head on his hand. ‘You can indeed; then if you’re up to it we’ll go together.’

Francis slipped the pillow from around his neck and smoothed down his hair. ‘I need to stretch my legs anyway; I’m going to have to get out and be near people soon on the boat.’

Arthur looked at the clock on the dashboard. ‘We’re an hour early; we’ve got lots of time so we can always go for a short walk now. There’ll be more security checks in Dover that will be more thorough anyway, so we can relax a bit here.’ Despite his anger at being woken up later than he’d wanted, they’d apparently still made it with plenty of time to spare and Francis tried not to look too proud that his risk of a better rested Arthur had paid off.

Arthur put on a serious expression and went quiet for a few moments, one thumb massaging his temple. ‘There was a news announcement about us whilst you were asleep.’

Francis felt as though a large amount of freezing cold water had just washed through his stomach. ‘And? What did they say?’

Arthur signed through his nose and tipped his head back to rest on his headrest. ‘Luckily, I wasn’t mentioned. Yet.’ he added, eyes focused upwards and staring at the sky through the windscreen. ‘They only mentioned that a residential home in Fouras had been broken into and that one of the residents was now missing. The person who tried to kill you wasn’t mentioned; dead or otherwise. Police are now searching for any leads and are encouraging members of the public to come forward with more information.’

Francis stared at his fingers which had unconsciously began to grip the material bunched around his knees.

‘If he were dead, the body must have been moved and the evidence cleared away before the police got there. If he’s alive, then there’s no mention of blood or a shooting. There wasn’t even a description of me given out at all,’ Arthur continued, ‘so we can safely say that the cameras were off and that it was most defiantly another care worker who had planned the attack; no one else would know the systems or have been able to cover their tracks that well. If I was seen by a worker, they’ve proven their guilt by not speaking to the police; the whole shift that night could have been involved for all we know.’

‘Or,’ Francis found himself speaking in a voice that sounded far too small to be his own, ‘maybe no one saw you at all and the cameras were turned off by someone outside who had been spying on the system’s pass codes. Maybe the body wasn’t mentioned because the police don’t wish to worry the public. The whole thing could have been planned by someone from outside who’s been observing the security.’ He gave a small jump as he felt a hand settle on his shoulder, which then gripped his shoulder in a comforting squeeze. He looked up to find Arthur looking at him; a sad expression settled in his eyes.

‘I’m sorry, Francis.’

Francis felt the small part of him, which he hadn’t realised was still there, the part that somehow had remained hopeful and trusting and unwilling to believe that the people he cared about and had lived with, melt away. Faces of cares flitted across his mind's eye and he gave a shaky breath out before focusing back on his fingers. He entwined them in a grip, trying not to let his watery eyes spill over.

Arthur rubbed his back and said nothing.

* * *

They finally arrived in Dover at 12:45, before then driving for a further three and a half hours to reach Arthur’s house in the middle of the Kent countryside. There wasn’t much English ground for them to cover, but the small and narrow country lanes kept slowing them down and Arthur had to drive at what felt like a crawl to get there.

They had got through okay on the French customs. There was the small issue of Francis not having a passport but for reasons Francis couldn’t figure out Arthur managed to wangle their way through without it. Whilst they went to have their passports verified, Arthur left him momentarily on a bench to talk to a guard and was led away for a little while before returning triumphant but mum. To make matter easier for them both as well they stayed inside the boat, not venturing to the upper decks, and on the closest floor they could to the car level. There were fewer fellow passengers there and they could get from and to their car quickly if need be, but despite being stared at, Francis’ wardrobe didn’t gain any direct questions and they were left alone.

On tatty chairs stained with years of sticky little fingers, lost chewing gum and spilt drinks, Francis found out that despite his deep centred irritation towards him at the best of times, he and Arthur actually had a lot in common. They discussed politics together happily and he was pleasantly surprised that Arthur could match him for historical as well as contemporary actions and figures. They also shared a love of old cars and of being outdoors, although Arthur disapproved of his tastes in literature and lifestyle. Francis couldn’t really blame him however, it was only during his later years that Francis himself had started to become more concerned with how he looked; daily maintenance was never something that bothered him below the age of 50.

Their chatting help pass the time and blend in better as mere tourists. British customs, however, were more tedious and time consuming than their French counterpart in Calais. Francis was placed in a wheelchair, quite against his will, by Arthur who had to remain standing for twenty odd minutes whilst they went though the British passport checks and more metal detectors. Word must have been passed ahead, because Francis’ lack of passport and their lack of proper luggage were not questioned and Arthur was allowed to push him out and back to their car, where they quickly left.

Francis found England unexpectedly interesting. He'd only visited once when he was very young, and to London at that, and found himself enjoying the countryside along the way. Unlike the northern French roads, the English motorways directly from Dover were often enclosed by hills of grass and trees on both sides which occasionally opened up to wide rolling, chalky hills. Francis could see, briefly, for miles before they were once again swallowed up by a valley.

Arthur’s house was also...different. It looked something like a pepper pot with a spout on top and a side building attached. Arthur, when he caught him looking from the car window with undisguised confusion, called it a converted _oast house*_ and informed him that they were actually quite common in this county.

Francis huffed, ‘no matter what it’s called, it looks ridiculous.’ And also rather unlived in, the whole place had an air of abandonment to it.

Arthur just glared at him. ‘Well, sadly for you it’s where you’re going to have to stay for a while.’ He got out of the car quickly, leaving Francis to lament upon his living conditions, and emptied the boot of their meagre possessions, dumping them near the front door before going back to collect Francis.

The house inside confirmed Francis' suspicions. It was dark, and smelt musty and unused. There were sheets on the sofas and Francis hovered in the hallway, propped up against a timbered wall, whilst Arthur set about throwing open windows and cleaning the sheets away so that Francis could sit down. At the first available chance to sit on an old sofa he took it, leaning back gingerly against the backrest and glancing about at his surroundings whilst Arthur brought in their luggage and dashed about trying to make things presentable. The house they were in was of a medium size, from what he could see on the sofa, and was decorated in a comfortable, rustic style, with wooden floors covered by rugs and large timbers set in white walls which bulged out and stretched their way across the ceiling. The furniture was relatively modern and was clustered around a good sized, yet outdated TV, which Arthur flicked on as he passed by it and chucked the remote to Francis. However, aside from a couple of landscape paintings on the walls and the odd ornament, the room was mostly bare of personal possessions. A few books lay on the shelves and in the bookcase, but they looked as though they were thrown on higgledy-piggledy or left behind, and there were no family photos or personal touches that gave an indication to who lived there. For some reason, Francis kept imagining that he could catch snatches of knowledge that told him the house’s true potential, and he somehow knew for sure that it had only recently been left empty.

Arthur’s hurried preparations of his house continued for the next few hours; there was nothing useful there for them, no food, no clean bedding and a whole lot to do before they could begin to relax or at least plan what they were going to do next. Arthur ordered them some food quickly from his phone on a rare break with Francis on the sofa, before disappearing off again into different rooms, sometimes returning with armfuls of bedding to wash and then carry to the tumble dryer. It was nearly 7 in the evening by the time there were two beds made up and the house liveable and warm. Arthur had stopped for the pizza he had ordered but left most of it to Francis before grabbing an old laptop with an even older wireless dongle from upstairs and ordering food and essentials to be delivered from a supermarket online.

Francis’ past few hours had been quite boring; between watching Arthur rush about the house and staring blankly at the English language TV programmes, he had napped; something his body seemed incredibly ready to do.

‘I’ll pop into town tomorrow to get you some proper clothes; I’ll need some new ones myself.’ Arthur spoke from over his laptop, eyes on the screen and face illuminated, distracting Francis from his eyes’ wandering. ‘There’s nothing here for either of us to wear so we’ll have to deal with what we’ve got for tonight.’

He placed the laptop on the coffee table, collected the dirty plates and vanished into the kitchen to wash up, but not before taking the remote from where it lay on Francis’ armchair and changed the TV to a news station, issuing instructions for Francis to keep an eye out for a mention of them in the news. As he made his way back into the living room, Francis caught him.

‘Arthur...’ Francis was tired and his bones ached after spending a whole day squashed in a car without any way of stretching himself out. He also hadn’t taken any medication for his heart but he knew that his curiosity would keep him awake and restless all night; he needed answers more than anything else.

Arthur glanced down at him from the doorway and nodded, understanding his unspoken question right away. ‘I know.’ He crossed back into the kitchen and opened a cupboard to reveal an old bottle of red wine. Grabbing two glasses, he came back to the living room and pushed the coffee table back so that he could sit right in front of Francis.

Francis fidgeted in agitation at being kept waiting and Arthur shot him a look which warned him to be patient before glancing down to the wine bottle, serving Francis a generous portion and passing it to him.

‘I never liked wine when I was younger.’ Francis offered as small talk when he accepted the glass.

Arthur gave a small smile before he sat straight backed with hands clasped on one crossed leg, attention fully on Francis. ‘Now, ask away.’

The first question was the one he had thought about for most of his life and it was not difficult to bring to mind. ‘What is in that case?’

Arthur considered him seriously for a moment before flicking his eyes briefly at the case which rested on the sofa rest to Francis, untouched from when it had first been placed there. ‘I don’t know for sure, only that it’s extremely important for the French government and must remain in safe hands.’

This easily led Francis to his next question. ‘Why on earth is that person me? How on earth did it end up in my possession, and why leave it in my house for me to find if it’s so important?’

‘Again, I don’t know the full details as I wasn’t around at the time,’ Arthur tried to give a small laugh but it sounded as though he’d choked. He poured himself some wine with practised ease. ‘You weren’t chosen by anyone, as far as I’m aware; you volunteered.’ He said, eyes on his task and seemingly avoiding eye contact.

Francis stared at him questioningly; mouth slightly open and his face morphed into a look of confusion. ‘But, that’s not possible-‘

‘-You were young,’ Arthur interrupted and bent forward slightly so he rested more on his knees, wine glass balanced in his hand and speaking to Francis directly, eyes back to looking at him properly so that Francis finally see that he was taking this seriously, ‘and were looking for a job, I think aged 22 or nearly that. You were stopped by someone who offered you some small change money to do a government issued personality survey, which you filled out and sent off, and then received about 20 Euros in your account later. As far as you know, that’s the last you heard of it. What you actually did, was to fill in a personality questionnaire and not read the terms and conditions.’ Arthur gave a rueful smile and swirled the wine in his glass. ‘You signed up for the survey but were considered an ideal candidate so you were progressed further, as you must have said that they could do with your data.’ Arthur shifted on the coffee table and paused to take a sip of wine. He made a face at the taste, but drank more anyway before elaborating further.

‘What’s in the case is too important to be guarded anywhere high risk, thus the French government’s beautiful, and not at all stupid, idea was to leave it with an unsuspecting member of their public.’

Francis made to speak and Arthur raised an eyebrow and continued, ignoring his attempted interruption, ‘I’m not saying I agree, mind you. They didn’t chose anyone known, or any of their agents involved with it directly, because the contents was, and is, deemed too luring; anyone aware about it or anyone too close to the government’s inner circle, anyone with any sort of power or position really, could use the contents against the case’s owner. The best thing to do, therefore, was loan it to a citizen of no status, no power, no possible way to attack the government or learn about what it is he’s guarding.’ Arthur finished off his glass and made to refill it. ‘And that’s where you come into this.’

Francis shook his head and gave a nervous laugh. ‘Now really, Arthur, this- I can’t be! Listen to yourself! This is ridiculous, surely? I mean,’ Francis indicated to himself, ‘look at me! This is too much of a risk, no? And all that hassle for a single case? I found it in my loft, after all, in an old house where the previous owner had left it behind.’ Francis gripped his glass and looked at Arthur beseechingly, but the other man avoided his gaze. ‘Please, be serious, if it’s truly important then perhaps the old owner of my house chose to leave it behind as the job was too much for him. I just _found_ it, I most certainly was not _given_ it.’

Arthur shook his head dismissively, a gesture Francis found annoying. ‘Francis, I’m sorry but I can’t tell you anything different; you were young and jobless which is what they were looking for; you didn’t travel much abroad, knew no other foreign languages, had no connections with anyone in the government of any particular country and you had no criminal record and no high ambition. You were an only child with elderly parents from a small family contained in a small area. You came along at the right time and they chose you. It was chance.’

Francis shook his head again in insistent denial. ‘No, Arthur, it makes no sense! I could have got a job later; I could have moved away and I could have opened the case or something! There was no way for them to kno-‘

‘Francis, listen to me.’ Arthur sounded frustrated and when Francis glanced at him he looked or the verge of allowing irritation to show on his face; ears were red and his eyebrows were starting to look stern. Arthur usually varied between being completely devoid of any visible emotion, to being extremely expressive and then to being unable to contain how he felt. He was a person who could chose; he could be emotional, or he could not. This half and half was strange; the fact that Arthur was struggling to remain impassive meant that either this situation was a lot closer to him personally than he had so far revealed, or he was trying too hard to act a part.

‘You asked me to be truthful, and I’m trying to be. The whole thing managed to work so well because they took your decisions out of the plan; they managed your life for you to ensure both yours and your charge’s safety and like it or not, that’s the truth.’ A thick, tension filled silence fell between them at that last bit of news and Francis found himself being unable to tune out the babbling of the TV niggling in the background, which had faded to an incomprehensible buzz that clawed at his attention; anything to offer an escape to this conversation. He stared at it and he sipped at his wine, trying to hold back the hysterical rage building up within him. How _dare_ he….

After a few moments Arthur broke the silence again, voice calm and authoritative and emotions settled back into control. ‘I’m not deceiving you, I’m _informing_ you. You asked, and this is the answer. You, Francis Bonnefoy had no control in any of these decisions, which is why this has worked so well for so many years. You don’t believe it’s you who was chosen, and thus nor does, or did, anybody else.’

Arthur waited for a response but, upon Francis’ refusal to add more to this ridiculous discussion, he tried again to make him see sense. ‘You were the first to fit the profile they were looking for; it was done as simply as that. The plan worked, and worked well, for many years! What I need to work out now is _how_ and _why_ it stopped working; who actually managed to track the case down and back to you.’

He run the hand not holding his glass through his hair and muttered, almost more to himself than to Francis, ‘This has never happened before; it’s always worked perfectly and now I’m stuc-‘

‘Oh poor you,’ Francis spat, finally breaking his silence, ‘poor you, sitting here with your tiny dilemma. What on earth are you to do now?’

Arthur gave a small grimace. ‘Francis...’

Francis fixed his eyes back on him and _glared,_ ‘I’m sorry, am I being difficult? Am I not making this _easy_ for you? Oh _do_ forgive me.’

‘Francis I didn’t mean it like that I meant that I-’

‘I don’t care what you meant!’ Heat coursed through his chest and ignited the voice in his throat. He put the glass down. ‘What _I_ mean is that you’re telling me my life was controlled by the government? How on earth do you expect me to believe that? How did I go my entire life not realising that I was the pawn on the republic?’

Arthur tried to quickly explain, ‘It’s not what you’re thinking of; it worked because it was subtle! They arranged for a restaurant to give you a chance, one in which they had connections to the owner but you had started looking at it for a job anyway! They found a house in the area you were searching to live in and knocked down the price, changed the lease and dismissed the landlord. The house was government owned property, but it was your choice to go. The government had nothing to do with you purchasing it.’

The anger helped adrenaline run through his body and allowed him to raise his voice to cover Arthur’s own; probably to the loudest he’d gone in years. ‘And that makes it okay?! Heh, you really want me to believe this don’t you?’

He shook his head in denial whilst Arthur tried very hard to calm him down, speaking again in a more soothing voice, ‘Francis, I don’t want you to believe anything, it’s just-‘

‘It’s just?’ Francis sat back more, away from Arthur now. If he was young enough he would have walked away by now, either that or thrown a punch at Arthur just to make him _shut up_. ‘Just what? Just a small thing; just that my life was controlled, apparently, by my government for more than 50 years and I knew nothing about this until today? It’s just that I’m being told all this by you- how do you know this anyway? Why are you even _here_?’

‘It’s been a long job, I’m just the next in line to make sure the case-‘

Francis held up a hand. ‘Does it look like I care about that damned thing?!’

Arthur fell silent and Francis could see the tension in his jaw as he clenched his teeth in his vow to remain unruffled and controlled. How long had he practised for this? Or had he hoped to never have this conversation? Francis didn’t want to allow himself to dwell upon those issues as that would mean admitting to himself that this whole charade was true.

Arthur placed his glass down as well, finally giving up the pretence that this was only a nice little chat, and tried to elaborate. ‘Your life was not controlled; it’s not what you’re thinking. Yes, I admit that your internet history was monitored; and certain variables were controlled to you to keep you in the country, but that was the worst of it.’ He leant further forwards and tried to look reasonable, face calm and hands upturned and spread apart. ‘Francis, being chosen for the job wasn’t your _choice_ but originally you-‘

‘No! No, you will not do this to me.’ Francis jabbed a shaking finger in Arthur’s direction furiously. ‘I have not come all this way; I have not suffered through attempted _murder,_ and waited for answers this whole time just to have you tell me that I signed up for this willingly. I will not!’

His chest felt tight, like it was being squashed, and found that he had drawn his left hand to his chest as he began gasping for a breath. Arthur saw him realise this and made to stand to help him but Francis shot him a look that dared him to even _try_.

‘My whole life is _mine_!’ he managed to hiss at the younger man, ‘I chose it, I am in charge of it; no one else! I did not chose to look after that- that _thing_ , and I will not have _you_ -‘ Francis struggled to carry enough air in his lungs to continue, ‘I will not have _you_ of all people tell me otherwise.’ Arthur had inched towards him more on the table and bent towards him, trying to take his hand away from his chest before speaking to him in a placating voice, ‘Okay Francis just-‘

Francis angrily hit his hands away and Arthur recoiled, seemingly shocked by his unexpected refusal. ‘I trusted you!’ His voice could barely go higher than speaking level and he wheezed between every other word; his chest _hurt_. ‘I called you back because I thought you could help me! I thought-‘ he tried to laugh but the air caught in his lungs and his throat tightened around nothing, ‘I thought that you would understand; I thought you would take me seriously but, instead-,’ he gasped, ‘instead you-’ he couldn’t continue; his heart wouldn’t stop beating, slamming into his rib cage, and his lungs felt as though they had shrunk in his chest. He dimly heard Arthur mention something like ‘water’ over the pounding of his own blood in his ears before his mind shut down and his vision went black, the burn in his chest distracting him from everything else.

* * *

_Francis has another memory from when he was younger, around 12. His parents were fond of travelling and ever since Francis was old enough to reliably sit on an aeroplane without causing severe harm to other passengers’ stress levels, him and his parents had taken to holidaying in Spain or Portugal. This particular year, his parents had taken him to explore a small village in Spain, near to the city they were staying in, which boasted impressive walks and an old castle on a hilltop. His mother had taken a fancy to a small gift shop strategically placed by the train station towards the end of the visit and had pulled his father inside with her, leaving Francis to dawdle unimpressed by the front entrance after stubbornly refusing to accompany them inside. He looked up from a small rock he was rolling under his trainer and by happenstance his gaze landed on the form of a young man crossing the road in front of him. He was well dressed, more suited to the city than a village, but seemed to be heading away from the station rather that to it. Francis quickly deduced that he must work there but live here; nowhere in this small place required that smart a dress, surely. Halfway through crossing the man must have felt Francis’ stare as he glanced up and locked eyes with him. His step faltered momentarily but he carried on his way, offering Francis a smile and a wave as he crossed to the other side, brown head getting harder to see between the bobbing of people, before disappearing behind a house. The memory is so banal that Francis always wondered why it’s one of the ones he remembers the most._

* * *

He awoke in a bed. He was propped on what felt like a mountain of pillows, under a good amount of blankets, to alleviate any pressure from his chest. He woke up slowly, one part of him regaining life at a time; his body felt loose and refreshed after what felt like a long, deep sleep in a soft, warm bed. As he slowly focused in on the world he made the comparison to how much better this was than sleeping screwed up on himself in the car filled with tension.

This then, of course, led on to _why_ he was in a car for so long in the first place.

Francis sighed and turned his head slightly to stare at the window. Arthur had drawn the windows to with thick, dark curtains that completely blocked out the light; cutting off his only means of determining the time, which meant he had no idea how long he’d been asleep or what part of the day it was. He felt perfectly awake and refreshed, however, and thus assumed that he’d at least slept the equivalent of a whole night. The other benefit of sleeping, other than allowing the body to recuperate and relax into better health, was the positive effect it had on the mental state. Francis had always been of the opinion that any problem could be solved after it had been slept on; the mind could focus on the logical issues it faced rather than the accompanying emotional connotations which usually made making a sensible decision difficult.

After a full good night’s sleep, then, Francis felt better. Although he didn’t agree with Arthur’s delivery, his ludicrous story _could_ have grounds to be true, but there was so much that needed to be explained in order for Francis to even give him the slightest benefit of the doubt. He still felt angry; it burned strong in his chest and made his stomach clench, but it was more towards his situation and his utter helplessness than at Arthur himself.

He gave a deep sigh and closed his eyes; focusing on steadying his breathing and trying to make himself relax. He stayed that way for a while, sorting through all of the previous day’s events and trying to make sense of them all. Arthur seemed sincere; at least in his efforts to help Francis to safety and to keep him alive. And his explanation was just probable enough to be possible; Francis had gone throughout all of his adult life hearing horror stories about the government, of his country and others, about them covering up what they didn’t want the general public to know and pursuing their interests for the supposed greater good, no matter the cost. It was _possible_ , he supposed, but Francis didn’t want it to be true, he didn’t want to consider the possibility that his whole life was someone else’s construct. It was soul destroying and thinking about it in full, even briefly made him feel numb and his heart race with the terror of being manipulated so seamlessly for so long.

But...

Despite its ring of truth, Arthur’s story didn't seem wholly correct. For some reason, Francis knew that Arthur was either lying about parts of it, or he wasn’t telling the whole truth, just by the way everything felt too _convenient_ almost. He reached up a hand to brush back his hair and made a face at the feel; he needed a wash. Preferably a _bath_ but really anything that had clean, warm water, though for that he'd need Arthur's help.

It was strange; Arthur had been helping him bath for a few years now, yet despite what they'd been through previously and the events of the past day Francis now felt... almost uncomfortable by the thought of it. Almost as if he was embarrassed for Arthur to see him, which was a ridiculous thing to be shy about _now_ , but there seemed to be something about him Francis now felt almost wary of. But even wary didn't seem like the right word.

He signed and stared again at the curtains, trying to guess the time to see if it was worth attempting to get up. Something just didn’t feel right about Arthur's involvement in all of this, aside from the total absurdity of it all, but now that he was a lot calmer and more prepared Francis was now ready to hear the whole story again in full; ready to listen carefully and start picking apart the threads to find the truth.

Luckily, he didn’t have to wait long. After half an hour of Francis mulling things over to himself, he heard a small knock at the door before Arthur poked his head through.

‘Ah good, you’re awake.’

He opened the door fully to reveal himself fully and carrying a glass of water.

‘How long have I been asleep?’ Arthur crossed the room to the bed and placed the glass down on the bedside table without answering. He then helped Francis to sit up and then handed him the water before he responded. ‘About 10 hours or so, it’s 6 am now; a rather good sleep for you, really.’

Francis ignored the sarcastic comment and accepted the water gratefully before drinking most of it quickly in a few gulps.

‘What are you doing awake this early?’

The other man paused for a second. ‘I’ve got a lot of things to sort out now that we’re here.’ He supplied in response, and then eyed Francis carefully. ‘How are you feeling?’

Francis avoided eye contact and moved his hand away slightly when Arthur reached to take the glass back; only looking up after Arthur had retracted his hand and had taken the unspoken request to give him some space. ‘Better; I don’t feel tired or as highly strung, anyway.’

Arthur gave a crooked smile. He looked guarded, as if trying to read Francis for a way to proceed but getting nothing helpful. Francis realised he’d have to make the offer before Arthur was to do anything and so decided to say what he made up his mind on during the time he’d been awake.

‘I’d like you to tell me again; from the beginning. I want to hear it all, and I want you to answer all of my questions without any excuses; just the bare, detailed facts. Please, Arthur,’ Francis leant forward and grabbed a hold of Arthur’s hand, catching the other man by surprise and breaking the tension between them slightly, ‘I don’t want justification and I don’t want a rose tinted version of anything. Nor do I want a cover up or any missing crucial details. This is my _life_ you were talking about, not some story.’

For a second Francis imagined that Arthur had given his hand a quick squeeze, but before he could focus on the sensation properly he had gently slipped his hand from Francis’ grasp and had placed it on his hip. ‘Okay. I admit I was a bit short with describing it to you yesterday; I’ll start afresh slower. I didn’t take the time to consider that this obviously means a lot more to you than to me and I didn’t account for your feelings properly when explaining; for that I apologise.’ Arthur looked away awkwardly; Francis could only guess that he was too unused to speaking in such a way.

Francis sighed. ‘No, it’s not only you; I got angry at you, when I shouldn’t have done.’ If Arthur was willing to admit to his bad behaviour, then it was only right that Francis cleared the air on his side as well. ‘It’s not your fault, for whatever’s happened. You weren’t even born when this started, if it’s true.’ Did Arthur just look guilty then? Francis dismissed it as, upon a second observation, Arthur’s expression hadn’t changed. But there was something...in his body language maybe? In his presence?

‘But please, consider this from my point of view,’ Francis’s heart skipped a beat as he spoke, the possibility of this being the truth staring him right in the face, ‘What would you do, if you suddenly realised that the life you'd lived was never truly your own? If what you told me is true...’ He took a deep, steadying breath and tried to continue without the waver threatening to break through his voice becoming apparent. ‘If what you’ve told me is true then my life, hasn’t really been mine, has it?’

Arthur reached out a hand to grab Francis’ shoulder, with a look on his face that Francis couldn’t quite give a name to, but stopped at the last moment, leaving his hand dangling there redundantly. He reclaimed it slowly and considered him for a moment before sitting on the edge of the bed silently, alert green eyes focusing on him.

‘Before we go through this again just answer me this,’ this was the question that had been nagging him yesterday and all of the time he’d been awake today, the little whisper tugging at his hear that he couldn’t quite tune out. It was the one that meant the most.

‘How much of it has been a lie?’

Arthur stared back at him; unmoving with a face frozen between emotions from being finally caught off guard.

‘And by a lie...’ Francis continued, hesitantly, ‘I mean how much of my life have I actually been in control of?’

Arthur tightened his lips but his eyes softened, as if trying to stop himself from saying something too comforting but being unable to wish the sentiment away.

‘I told you yesterday; Francis, I know this is hard for you, and by “know” of course I can’t even _begin_ to understand how you feel,’ He seemed to place a little too much emphasis on the ‘begin’, either that or the intonation just seemed _off_ , ‘but it’s not as bad as it sounds. You made all the decisions and you chose and changed every aspect of your life according to what was available to you. So, while _yes_ some of those options were laid out for you, there was never a point where you were not in control of what was going on.’

‘But my life itself was still planned, no? It still had an end goal, designed by someone else.’

‘Well...’

‘And I merely selected my desired cards from an incomplete deck that another hand intentionally drew; the outcome was always fixed wasn’t it?’

Arthur said nothing and Francis continued; questions tumbling from his lips as his mind latched onto what it finally realised was the puzzle piece that never fit properly in Arthur’s story.

‘You say this was a random selection of a random citizen who willingly and unknowingly signed himself up for this whole business, but how on earth would they know me so well? If my life was as much my own as you say, then how could anyone factor in so much, like my personality or habits, and then plan that it would all go according to plan? Would one quiz show them so much? If so, then I surely would remember such intrusive questions.’

He breathed in, collected his thoughts and arranged them. He continued, ‘How do you know this? Why do you know this? If, as you said, I was a free man all along, why were you in the care home in the first place, were you guarding me or the case? And why you, an Englishman, of all people? Why not a member of the French government?’

Their conversation had shifted, Arthur had gone from supportive and comforting to guarded and tense whilst Francis had gone from willing and accepting to eager to pick fault; eager to gain back some of the control he’d not realised he’d lost from their relationship. Since this had started he’s never even considered the two of them anything but equals both caught in a random event. But now...

But now so much seemed to be built on shaky ground. All that Francis knew about the case and even the attempt on his life he knew from what Arthur had told him. None of it he knew for himself by his own seeing. The escape from the home, the security cameras being conveniently off and the place empty with open gates; too much felt _wrong_. Why would the place be empty? How could all of the residents be hidden; the staff be coerced into either leaving for the night or joining in? And no resistance? Furthermore, it wasn’t possible to change shifts unless there was a good reason, more so for almost an entire shift change. And if the other workers were responsible for all of this, didn’t that also mean that Arthur could be intricately involved in all of this, playing the ‘good cop’ in a ‘bad cop’ play?

 _‘It’s not so much what I did, it’s what I failed to do.’_ Arthur’s words from yesterday came to the front of his thoughts. What had he failed to do? Why _was_ he in France? And involved in all of this? Just how long had Arthur been involved; been part of this plan to somehow shape and direct his life? Where did Arthur’s position in this lie; if he was protecting Francis and the case that meant he would have had to have been involved beforehand, but when? When Francis got his first home help nurse? When his wife had died? When and why did Arthur suddenly appear in all of this?

How many years had he been watched?

Looking back, he had been _led_ by Arthur all along, none of what had happened to them had been his idea; none of it was of his choosing but it was he who was the most affected by it all. Arthur was too calm, too planned out and his reactions too _perfect_. Francis was alone in a strange country where he couldn’t speak the language, had no currency and thus no way of getting back again. He couldn’t walk far or go and get food unaided and he couldn’t survive for long without medication that he’d need someone else to order for him.

He was trapped here.

His thoughts flashed through his brain and he focused onto and processed each one before jumping to the next. The whirl in his brain was finally brought to a stop by Arthur, who had gently laid a hand on Francis’ arm and was gripping it softy.

‘Francis, please, you’re going to have to trust me and let me explain. I’m not trying to deceive you.’

Francis gave a sad laugh and Arthur tried to not show any traces of exasperation, though Francis could sense it building anyway. Instead the younger man tried to look more cheerful and forced a smile; mouth still tight and eyes unreadable. ‘But first let’s both get some food in us and freshen up a little; it’ll be easier to talk once you’re up properly and I’ve had some more caffeine. Can’t have you ‘croaking’ on me, eh?’ He patted Francis’ arm cordially and rose from the bed before looking down at him with a smile.

Francis recognised Arthur’s attempt at their old banter as a way of him trying to move the conversation off an apparently difficult subject. After all, if it was as clear cut and simple as Arthur was trying to make it out to be, he wouldn’t be so irked by Francis questions to try to avoid them. A simple answer was usually the truth; avoidance indicated a lie. What was the difference between talking now or later? If he had nothing to hide, why delay answering?

Something clicked in his head that he’d unintentionally asked the wrong question to start with, or, in his case, the _right_ question. What if he had gone downstairs when first asked and let the matter drop? He could easily have been talked into accepting a logical story, something Arthur had thought over long and hard to fill in all the gaps, but by asking the right question, by luck, he’d broken enough holes in the story before Arthur had even had a change to plan a counter-attack.

Forcing himself to make eye contact with the other man, Francis shook his head. 'I'm not going anywhere until you answer me with the whole truth. And I mean it.'

Arthur stared back at him, eyes calculating, and said nothing.

‘After all, upon what grounds can I trust you when you’re not telling me something?’ He said imploringly, _desperate_ now that Arthur would do or say something that would break him from his horrid new image Francis was building of him.

'I'm sure you mean well, but I want to know now. Now point in delaying, _my dear_ _,_ if you have nothing to hide _._ ' He attempted a smile but leant away from Arthur, resting more against the headboard of the bed and making obvious his intentions to stay.

Arthur stayed silent for a while, holding eye contact with him and considering him carefully. Finally, he nodded. 'Okay then Francis. We can do that.'

Francis gave a sign of relief and sat up again happily. _'_ _Arthur,_ I'm really glad you said that-'

All of a sudden, Arthur lunged forward. Francis' dull reflexes worked enough to register hands on his cheeks, the feeling of panic in his heart and the force of his head being twisted to the side.

He died quickly.

* * *

Arthur took the shower curtains off from around the bath before turning with them and carrying them downstairs to the kitchen, where he left them. The old tiled floor was freezing his bare feet, so he made his way as quickly and as light-footedly as possible into the living room, throwing open the old curtains before making his way across to the armchair in the corner where the briefcase sat atop their meagre luggage. He picked it up before holding it in his hands, bouncing it slightly to test its weight.

'Well then, finally time to return this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah Nelly Nora, I’m still here and this is still going! Hope you’re all still okay following this along through the many months between updates; if there are any inconsistencies that you’ve spotted when reading any of the chapters please let me know, as well as if this fits with the previous depictions of their characters and general flow of the story.
> 
> This chapter was originally part of the previous one, but then the whole thing grew so long that I had to break it into two pieces; it turned out to be a good thing as I then expanded them into more detail that made it feel a bit more like a narrative than a description.
> 
> Many thanks as well for all of your kind comments!  
> To Captive; I'm glad you're really interested in what's happening; keep me updated on what you think! :P
> 
> To Maxcellwire: Thank you so much for your comment and the time it took you to write it, I hope I can keep fulfilling! I love writing the banter the most; they're so fun to write~
> 
> Please everyone enjoy the newest chapter and thank you very much for sticking with me thus far; see you soon!


	6. The Past Will Always Catch You

The Past Will Always Catch You

He woke up slowly, mind knitting together soft, fuzzy pieces of memory in a calm and disjointed manner. A soft bed. Sobbing in a bath tub with no curtains. Hands raking torn nails down an arm. Hugging his knees on a kitchen floor.

None of it made very much sense.

After what felt like no time at all, but must have been at least a good length, he found himself to be upright and staring at a reflection of himself in a mirror, eyes staring vacantly at the reflection. This he considered strange, because although he knew that he'd been up and moving for a while he couldn't exactly focus on any particular place until now, nor could he remember anywhere previously but a floor. His feet hurt from standing for too long.

He couldn't remember going into a bathroom, but he wasn't surprised to be in one. As awareness started to further seep in it was all very confusing when he thought about it, especially because he had a headache that throbbed slightly from behind his eyes and that was making things very difficult to concentrate on anything for more than a few seconds before he found himself zoning out again.

Focusing eyes, he raised his hand and watched his reflection in the mirror as it pulled and rubbed the scruff on his chin. He needed a shave, but he felt too… removed from himself, almost, and decided to leave it for later. Glancing at his toes sinking into a carpeted floor as he went, he traipsed his way along a landing and into a bedroom where a pile of folded clothes was laying on a large double bed. The sheets smelt fresh but the bed was slept in, duvet in an angry pile at the top near the pillows and headboard. He lay a hand upon a shirt and stroked the material gently, feeling the pull and fold of material in his hands. It was at this point that he dimly realised he didn't have any clothes on, and felt a small nagging in his mind which told him that he should probably rectify this so, despite being at what he assumed was a comfortable temperature, he dressed himself. He then found himself back in the bathroom and haunting the mirror, although again he couldn't remember making his way there or how long he had been there for.

Despite the lapses in memory, the fogginess in his mind was starting to clear a little- reality was becoming sharper and time feeling more linear and workable. He turned on a tap, filled cupped hands with cold water and brought them to his face, roughly pulling them over the scruff on his chin, (he really should shave) and gently rubbing at his eyes to wake himself up more.

Releasing a breath, he straightened and gazed again at the reflection in the mirror, noting that something wasn't quite right but not able to quite tell why or what it was. He kept focusing on different parts, his smooth skin and blond hair, staring at the details as if he expected them to change.

A distant clink of a spoon on ceramic caught his attention, and the smell of what he knew to be coffee peaked his curiosity enough to overcome the doubts he had of his ability to make it down the stairs. Wobbly, he latched onto a railing with one hand and cautiously made his way down, one foot at a time finding a good foothold before the next one lifted to go onwards. As he reached the bottom, he felt a fleeting feeling of accomplishment and self-worth before noticing a man, sitting on a large and comfortable looking sofa, in the first room beyond the stairs. There were red scratches up the man's arm and he clenched his own hands, a seed of guilt briefly appearing before disappearing with a whisp of memory.

The man on the sofa was reading a book with a cup of something steaming on a large oak table beside him, but he looked up at the sound he made as he put his feet on wooden floors instead of carpeted stairs and nodded to him in greeting.

'There's some coffee poured for you in the kitchen; I heard you moving about.' He indicated with his head to a room past an archway and then looked down again, back to his book.

He tried to respond, opened his mouth to thank him, but the words caught in the front of his mouth as his tongue couldn't remember were to start. Instead he nodded, relieved that the other man didn't look up to notice his failed attempt at speaking, and made his way past the sofas and into the kitchen.

'I'm glad you found the clothes this time,' the other directed at him from the other room, 'let's just hope this one lasts a bit longer.'

The last comment didn't make much sense, so he ignored it in favour of taking the sole mug sitting on a counter and taking a sip, instantly regretting it as he burnt his tongue on scalding hot and dark black coffee. He knew that he liked it, but couldn't quite remember why exactly as it was very flavoursome- too much for him at the moment. His stomach made a gurgling noise and he looked regretfully towards the mug and then at the fridge in the corner of the kitchen. As he started towards it, he was stopped by the sound of socked feet moving smoothly against the flagstone floor.

'I wouldn't just yet,' The man from the living room told him as he turned his head to look for the source of the noise, 'you'll probably reset again soon.'

'I will?' The first words he'd spoken since waking fell from his lips easily, almost as if he himself didn't know he was going to say them until he did.

The other man nodded, and drummed one set of fingers on an elbow; arms crossed loosely across his chest. He was wearing a woolly jumper that he knew he'd seen the other man wear before, many times across many vague memories. 'Probably.'

'Oh.' He stood stupidly in the middle of the room, not quite knowing what to do next but it was becoming harder to focus on caring. He found that he couldn't feel his fingers and focused all of his rapidly diminishing mental energy into trying to wiggle them, failing to realise that a buzzing sound was beginning to grow from deep within his head.

The last thing he heard was the other man curse in frustration and the give a soft sigh as the room went dark.

* * *

He woke up, face-down, on a thick carpet.

He lay there a while, staring at one of the whorls in a pattern and fighting the urge to vomit, before flopping over onto his back. He could remember being downstairs but couldn't remember how he'd managed to get back up again, or why he was once again very much naked. The light coming in through a window was brighter- a lot of time had passed.

Deciding against finding some clothes just in case whatever was happening decided to happen again, he curled to his knees and pushed himself up with heavy, leaden limbs to shakily make his way back down the stairs. The man was still, (or once again, he couldn't quite tell), in the living room, watching the telly though this time, and tutted when he saw him shuffle into through the door.

'Could you not at least put on underwear?' He lifted a hand and pointed. 'The kitchen's that way.'

'I remember.'

The man looked ever so slightly happy for a moment, the corners of his mouth lifting and his eyebrows raising. 'Oh? Well, that's good.' He turned away again, leaving him to shuffle stiffly back to where he knew he'd find the fridge. He didn't really know why he was aiming for the fridge, but it felt important somehow and as it was the only distinct idea in this head, he decided to stick with it, lest it disappear.

Walking, however, was becoming a struggle. He veered around the island counter in the middle of the room and almost thrust himself towards the sink by the window, hands gripping the porcelain and shaking in the effort to keep him upright. After a few deep breaths, he had managed to steady himself enough that he could stand straight and try to see out of the window. He found a medium size garden filled with shrubbery, but it was too bright for his eyes to look for more identifying details as to where he was. His surroundings felt familiar, but it wasn’t home, he knew that much.

At the fridge, he was greeted to the sight of fresh vegetables, a cut of lamb sitting with some slices of ham, and some milk. A carton of eggs sat on top of a bar of chocolate. An opened pot of jam. A crushing wave of disappointment filled him. What on earth had he been looking for?

'God knows what you're after.'

He jumped as the man from the sofa spoke from behind, close enough to stare into the fridge with him but far away enough that he was out of his arms' range.

He continued. 'Every single time you go towards it, I'm beginning to think you're judging me somehow.' He gave a small grin and moved back, round past the sink and to the window's side of the island counter. 'I did make you some coffee, but that was a while ago and it's probably cold now.'

He picked up a mug which was stood alone and in the middle of the counter and took a tentative sip before making a face at the taste. 'Yep, stone cold.'

By the fridge, his stomach twinged as if in sadness. Coffee seemed like a perfect thing to have right now.

As if reading his thoughts, or most likely acting from prior experiences, the other man turned to pour the forgotten cup down into the sink and clicked on the kettle.

'How're you feeling?'

Though he did not look his way, the question was meant for him.

'I'm fine, I think.' He shut the fridge and slowly and carefully placed himself on a stool, leaning against the counter once sat properly. 'I feel more… here.'

The other man nodded as he went through the processes to remaking the drink; the smell of it soon filled the kitchen and accompanied the comfortable silence between them. He realised that sitting on someone's stool naked probably wasn't acceptable and quickly got off after the other person in the kitchen shot him a shake of the head, glancing pointedly at the stool he was sat on. So, feeling much stronger now anyway, he stood and was rewarded with a look of amusement.

After placing a fresh mug of black coffee in front of him, the other man pulled himself onto the stool on his left and said, 'don't drink it straight away this time.'

A burnt tongue throbbed slightly when raked across his teeth, a physical memory of something his mind couldn't quite picture. 'I won't.'

He blew on the surface. Judging by the smell, this was a good brand; full and flavoursome it was generously dark.

'Do you remember me?'

He stopped blowing and looked up. The man was leant forward, one hand supporting his head but more for comfort than boredom, with a calm expression of youthful curiosity. His eyes, however, looked old.

'You are Arthur.'

One corner of Arthur's mouth flicked into a smile. 'Yes, I am.'

'And I, I am Francis.'

Arthur watched him as he lifted his mug again. The possibility of a smile was gone from his face now. 'Yes, I suppose you are.'

* * *

Francis did not lose track of himself again. After his coffee, Arthur had slipped away silently, to where or to be back when Francis didn't know. He himself found it high time that he got dressed and so had gone back upstairs to find some clothes, which he possibly had a memory of putting on earlier, folded neatly on an almost as neatly laid bed. He decided against shaving, rather liking the slow growth of stubble spreading out across his jaw. Made him look more real, somehow. A person with something to focus on. Other than facial hair, he didn't feel as though he needed further hygiene maintained, feeling and smelling quite clean, and only brushed his teeth before wandering back downstairs. It was now 2pm, according to a little clock on the mantelpiece in the living room, which told Francis nothing further about his current whereabouts, situation or circumstance. Surprisingly, he realised that he wasn't really bothered about this. He recognised the house he was in as somewhere not sinister and felt no urge to leave it, nor did he feel as though he shouldn't be where he was. Instead he felt more…empty. Apathetic to it all.

He was Francis. He was in a living room. He was in a house. On a sofa.

He _was_.

That, in itself, made him feel strange. Who was he? Every time he tried to think, or imagine himself and his life, flashes of memory snagged at his mind but they never stayed for long and didn't seem to match up with what he had seen in the mirror. He got glimpses of grey hair and shaking hands. Liver spots and a weakness that hollowed his bones and weighted his balance. Now his face was young and his back straight; hands steady with strength coiled in his legs.

He felt fine, and that felt out of place, somehow. Almost as if he'd been ill for a very long time- feeling as healthy as he did felt wonderful but alien and he had no idea why he felt this way. He body was remembering something his mind could not but, oddly enough, he couldn't bring himself to care.

* * *

He passed a few hours just sitting and reading, sprawled along the length of the settee. He didn't know the author of the book, didn't know the story and didn't really like the writing style or where the plot was going but he read it anyway, perhaps for a lack of better things to do.

Before too long, Arthur came back; door clicking open and a sound of shuffled feet on a doormat.

'Welcome back.' Francis didn't look up but instead read to the end of his paragraph and marked his place before laying the book back on the coffee table. 'Where did you go?'

Arthur put a set of keys in a bowl on a windowsill by the door. Looking up, he slipped his shoes off and moved into the living room. 'I just went for a short walk. It's been a while since I was here and I just wanted to make sure all was okay. There's been some flooding recently.'

Francis didn't really know what to add to that, not really knowing where 'here' was, and so stayed silent. Arthur stared at him hard for a while, green eyes darting about Francis' face, before nodding to himself and making his way quickly upstairs. Before too long, he reappeared again carrying-

_The room he was in was long and the sunlight illuminated every corner; the windows had been well placed and he leant against one easily, watching a man with blond hair walk th_ _rough the courtyard and climb in to a waiting car. He was carrying a case of great age, the colour looked shabby from even here, but sturdy._

_There was a soft cough from behind him and Francis turned. Not too far away stood a man he hadn't heard enter but_ _knew well enough, Julien Durand. With his tall stature and serious looks, he looked every inch the politician he was and Francis had often wondered if he would fit any other job with a smile that sly._

_'Ah, Monsieur Durand, can I help you with something?'_

_The other man's mouth twitched but he otherwise remained impassive and unreadable. 'I do so hope that you can. That was Lord Kirkland you had met just now, am I correct?'_

_Francis nodded, Arthur was no secret. 'It was.'_

_His colleague stayed silent for a time and for the first time an expression of uncertainty could be identified, eyes shifting uneasily without resting in one place for too long while he wrung his hands. It looked as though he either didn't know what to start with or that he was trying to c_ _hoose his words carefully, either way Francis was starting to grow irritated and tried to coax him along._

_'Monsieur Durand?'_

_Durand's head snapped up. 'I apologise. I just wanted to say, Monsieur Bonnefoy, that I have heard some concerning rumours about the man and I was wondering if you'd be able to help me understand a few things.'_

_Interest piqued, Francis was all too happy to respond, especially if it was to gossip about Arthur._

_'Please do,' Francis pushed himself away from the window, 'shall we go someone else to talk?'_

_The man glanced about. 'No, here is fine with me, what I have to say won't take long.'_

_Durand stepped a bit closer, head high and more in control of himself. 'Myself, and a few others, have begun to grow suspicious of Lord Kirkland. If I am to be completely frank and to the point, I have gathered particularly damming evidence that he is gathering intelligence on the French government and selling it onwards.'_

_Although Francis never turned away an opportunity to slander his favourite heathen across the sea, he knew the conversation had very suddenly waltzed onto dangerous ground. 'He does seem to be the type, does he not? He is a very... withdrawn_ _man; very ill tempered but surely he cannot be a spy, if that is what you're implying? He himself is a highly regarded member of the British government.' Then, he added on gently, 'They are also our allies.'_

_Durand frowned and spoke more quietly. 'I am not implying anything Monsieur Bonnefoy. Mr Kirkland has been observed in highly restricted parts of the French governmental archives without supervision and I have myself obtained proof that, over the years, he has been quietly been in contact with a member of the French parliament and has been slowly acquiring highly sensitive data.'_

_Francis noticed that Arthur's title had been dropped, but said nothing and Durand continued._

_'I have come to you, Monsieur_ _Bonnefoy, because I know you two, ha_ _ving similar roles, are in frequent contact and I need your backing when I put forth what evidence I have; alone I do not really have much standing.'_

_A beat of silence as Francis quickly tried to read the situation. 'If what you say is true, then of course something needs to be done to prevent him continuing.' Francis smiled, giving nothing away. 'What of his contact from our side?'_

_Durand gave an small smile, mouth twitching as a corner, and a quick shake of his head. 'Not someone too important, just someone who knows enough, I think, for Kirkland to get what he needs. I think - no, I'm convinced that he's involved in something detrimental to the safety of France.'_

_Francis straightened his shoulders. 'Is that so?' Something was wrong, something was not being said but Francis didn't know how far to push this man, something in his gut to_ _ld him to play along, for the time being at least._

_'It is.' An excited glint was in the politician's eyes now, giving him a slightly manic air. 'There's something that's being kept from us by our own government, God knows what exactly but I think Kirkland has found it. I have my ideas, but I cannot be sure; after months of searching I myself can find nothing but vague references which could easily be overlooked. Indeed, if I hadn't caught Kirkland in the archives I wouldn't have begun to track what he was_ _searching for in the first place. He leaves very few traces.'_

_Francis forced himself to look concerned. 'This is- this is a highly serious matter Julien.'_

_Durand looked relieved. 'I'm glad that I can rely on your assistance, more so because you understand how highly sensitive this is. Kirkland trusts you, and if we work together we can figure out what he's hiding; without more evidence as to what he's after it will be hard to convince higher ups, especially if it concerns a topic we are not supposed to be aware of.'_

_'I understand completely.' Francis made himself say the words, he needed to contact Arthur as soon as possible._

_'You can help me then, yes?' Durand tilted his head, a smile pulling at his lips._

_Francis forced an airy laugh. 'Of course, I can try but I'm not as close to him as you seem to think I am.'_

_The man said nothing but tightened his lips. Without another word, he strode across the room and pulled open the door to a cupboard and from it pulled another_ _old briefcase._

_Francis' heart stopped and with a flash of clarity he wondered how much of this exchange had been planned._

_Durand came smoothly back over to where Francis was frozen and held out the case for him to take. Francis reached out and in what h_ _e hoped he tremour free hands, he held its heavy weight carefully._

' _You know what this is, don't you?'_

_Francis shook his head and stroked his hand across the old leather._

' _Don't lie!' Francis' eyes snapped up and locked with his companion's. Durand now stood tense, eyes cold and stare unwavering with a voice laced with steel. 'Do not, Sir, lie to me.'_

' _I'm not lying?' Francis sounded confused to his own ears. The conversa_ _tion had turned so suddenly that he couldn't think quick enough, couldn't do much any more to ignore the experienced part of himself that knew something was so very wrong._

_Anger, sudden thick, intense anger poured from every part of the other man; his hand_ _s clenched and he tightened his jaw, head erect and chin up with cold eyes that were twisted into a scowl of such intense anger that Francis had to stop himself from stepping back._

_'I know you're lying! And I know what you're involved with! Do you not think that I recognise how serious this is?' The change in his persona was so swift that it threw Francis off his mental track completely before his mind stuttered further to a stop at a quick flash of metal as the man plunged his hand into his pocket and whi_ _pped out a gun._

_'I know that you know what's inside, I saw you! This is a possible threat to our nation; why do you not care? How DARE you lie, and think that you can trick me!'_

_'Wait a second!' Francis threw a hand up; a reflex._

_'I had hoped you were wo_ _rth saving.' There was an edge of insanity to Durand's voice, but he'd been so normal and this had happened so fast Francis couldn't think abou-_

_A loud shout, his own most likely, before Francis threw the case away to safety away from the shot and then a sudden sharp bang filled his ears as his senses overloaded with the pressure and pain that rocketed through his chest, burning into his heart. The ceiling swung as he fell backwards, and he fought to keep the air in his lungs as his back cracked against th_ _e hard wood floor. His vision went black and he remembered nothing else._

* * *

_A case_.

Francis had an immediate explosion of pain from right behind his eyes and gasped, clutching his head in his hands and swinging his weight around so his feet could touch the floor and help ground him. He felt a weight next to him on the sofa and felt Arthur behind him, a steadying hand on his shoulder from where he was stood from behind the backrest.

'Jolly good, looks as though you're ready.'

'Ready?' Francis gasped, pain receding but still _pounding_ , an incessant thrum of something pushing against his mind and making his head feel heavy.

'Sadly so.' Arthur patted his shoulder and moved away to sit on the coffee table in front of his knees.

Francis looked up to see Arthur pick up the grubby old case from where he had briefly placed it on the sofa and set it gently on his lap, latch facing Francis and now so close that he could reach out and flick the lock to swing the top open. The pain was a dull ache now, nestled behind his eyes, meaning that he could sit up straighter and take a deep breath. He didn't need to ask any questions; the pull of the case was a strong one and he was finding it harder to stop himself from grabbing it off Arthur's lap and ripping it open. It was his and he _needed_ to open it, needed to see what was in it, needed to take it and run, needed to-

Arthur smacked his hands away.

'Ah! Not yet.'

A small shocked silence where Francis just stared at Arthur's face blankly, hand feebly left in the air inches from the case. Then a very real and quick rage flared up to take its place.

'What?' He snapped, 'why not.'

'Because you have no idea what you're doing,' Arthur retorted, carefully shifting the weight of the lump on his legs. 'This is getting rather on a bit in the years and considering all it's recently been through I don't want you damaging anything inside. God knows, it'll be harder to get this process over and done with quickly if I have to go about searching for new things, plus the palaver you'd give me.'

'What process? What on earth are you talking about?'

'You have recently reset.' Arthur spoke softly and slowly, as if to a child. 'Your mind hasn't yet caught up with your body, nor what's happened to you. It is currently trying to remember things that it has been hiding from itself for a long time. What is in here will help you reset faster than natural, or else this,' he gestured with one hand to Francis' entire body, 'will take a few more days where you will mope about and potentially wake up stark naked on my landing. Trust me when I say that doing it this way is far more convenient.'

Francis furrowed his forehead in confusion. 'What do you mean?'

Arthur visibly considered his words before he spoke again. 'This will help jog the memories that are trying to come back. They will come back anyway, but seeing what's in this case will speed up the process. All of your blackouts are your body and your mind attempting to fuse together again, to understand who you truly are.' He grinned, one corner of his mouth pulling upwards. 'There's a lot to remember, after all.'

Arthur settled his hands back on the case and stroked the aged, scratched lid. 'This is something we've always done, for as long as I can remember anyway, and something you will hold me to if this fails to work properly. So,' he raised his eyes, 'here you go.'

He gently placed the case in Francis' lap and took out a key which he was keeping in his trouser pocket. Taking it from him, Francis wasted no time but gently tilted the case so that the lock was easier to reach and placed the key in the lock.

It turned easily, smoothly.

He lifted the lid and-

He took a sharp breath in. There were not many things inside but there were enough, _more_ than enough, even, for him to take in all at once and his mind exploded with memories of things and places and people and _time,_ so much time and so many eras, decades, ages. He wanted to run his hands over them all, and all at once, but oh how beautiful they all looked, nestled in amongst expensive silken skirts and scarves to protect them against knocks; small dainty rings and cufflinks which glinted and shone in the afternoon light were placed in a small ornate box-

 _A gift. It was a gift from a friend a long time ago, presented as a gift of union between two and against another, a show of wealth from one power to a neighbour just as great and they shook hands and hugged because although this was not the first gift they had ever given each other it was the most special, the most poignant, the one which Francis knew meant an awful lot and it meant so much that something this precious would to offered to him. To him! That would show them the reach and the control but it meant more than that because this was something for_ him _, and not just the union; small and discreet it did not show might but trust and appreciation. The other man laughed at his surprise and said, in his cheerful voice with warm hazel eyes twinkling, 'You thought this was just political? We're friends too, you know!'_

_The box was hand crafted by his king and he knew that his companion held it truly dear, the simple fact that it was n_ _ow in his possession meant so much, so very very much._

His hand ghosted over the box, fingers tentatively stroking the folds of the metal carvings and eyes filling rapidly with something akin to happiness, love, euphoria and a whole lot of emotions that couldn't be named, and stopped to rest on some old, some very old, worn leather bound books, pages fragile but still strong in their bindings. How he loved to read and had watched being written by glorious and great men scrunched over a candle: tales of revolution, tales of believing in hope against all odds, of counts and hunchbacks and musketeers.

Next to those, a bundle of carefully folded letters from Margaret of Anjou, daughter of France but Queen of England who ignited a civil war and planned her attacks from across the channel. Her letters were calculating and careful, each point carefully scrutinised before it was ever put to paper as upon these pages were instructions to wait, to muster arms, to hide, to flee, to kill; all the things a disposed Queen of England should not have written.

A small pocket knife, a Napoleonic present from the man who promised him much and almost succeeded; an arrow head emblazoned with dark dry blood from the eye of a king; an American made pocket watch with an inscription of thanks and then…

A small wooden cross, rubbed and worn down into dips and hollows by tired and anxious fingers, held steadfast whilst lips prayed with fervour; prayers that tumbled from chapped lips. It had be held in the trembling hands of an observer as she had burned, burned burned burned, for the crime of being a woman in a men's war and hearing the voices of a God who had sided with the French.

He placed it carefully back down, making sure each bead attached to the rosary was not mishandled. He let the last few slip through his fingers and gently lowered his hand as he eyes caught a small clay imitation of a Celtic torc, the size of a child's neck and clumsily made by a child's hands with crude but intricate designs. A gift of thanks, willing given and lovingly made, from a small child of angry words and far too large eyes of emerald.

His own eyes were fixed and could not look away, even when he heard Arthur murmur distantly, as though he sat far away, 'Do you remember me?'

'Yes.' His voice was soft, barely there, but he knew the other had heard. 'You are England.'

He looked up, eyes spilling over and the full force of everything that was and is once again settled its great, heavy weight into his mind, soul once more taken over by the memories of over a thousand years of simply _being_.

'And I am France.'

England smiled.

* * *

_Gaul did not like Britannia when he first met him. It was as if some part of his brain just knew that this small nation would be bring him a lot of stress in the future and starting very soon. He knew about him long before he met him- whispers from the adult nations about the new world and the last jewel of the north, the unconquered and exotically dangerous family from the misty land of white cliffs protected by savage seas. Gaul also knew that his name was not actually Britannia- that had been his mother, just like Gaul had been the nation before him- but the boy was Britannia now. The mother then was now, finally, dead._

_He had heard rumours of the original Britannia. He had heard that she stormed down valleys with her furious and terrifying men, shouting and screaming bone chilling battle cries as they slew hundreds of well trained and hardy Roman soldiers. People said that she had flames for hair and eyes of hell fire; strange spells written in blue scrawled across her body which gave her magical powers. A bloodthirsty barbarian with dirty heathen sons._

_Few knew she had children and certainly no one knew how many. There had been whispers of one or two for a few centuries already, but no one who had got close enough to them had survived. But now that the small Britannia was here, the might of Rome had finally grown too strong._

_~...~_

_Gaul only saw him briefly when he arrived; chains around his hands and one about his leg connecting him to the soldier in front of him, he had a tear stained face with eyes that radiated terror. Mother Greece shook her head and slipped into the shadows before his arrival, but Gaul knew she stood unseen nearby, watching. The child said nothing and hardly moved unless he was made to walk, but his eyes darted about the room as if trying in desperation to find some way out and back to the life he'd had before._

_From that day forth though, Britannia was a loud and very disobedient colony. Rome may have been an empire, but he also saw himself as doing right; he was helping these small nations and raising them in the way of the civilised and his gifts of Roman culture were of course a far better prize than the one he was trying to wipe away. But every time he tried to talk to Britannia, in the small house he kept him in, he would come away with scratches, bite marks, and a face of thunder which warned that Britannia's days of patience were wearing thin._

_Gaul thought that he could try and help. He was, after all, one of Rome's older children and obviously the most civilised after Rome himself. The issue was that Britannia refused to accept his new life, he would not answer to his new name and nor would he make any attempt to learn Latin, traditional or vulgar. He was also constantly angry, and would scream and kick if Gaul got anywhere near and would throw whatever was within his arms' reach to try and make Gaul, or anyone else, go away and leave him alone. The only person he permitted was mother Greece, who, after a few months of this tirade, had gained permission from Rome to sit and try and talk some sense into the child. Rome steered the other colonies from the house when Britannia's heart wrenching, desperate cries grew too loud._

_Gaul began to detest him._

_Why would he not just accept his new, better life like all of the others? Why would he not just start to act like the civilised nation Rome was offering to let him be? Gaul could not understand why he would hate Rome so, when all Rome had done was to try and help this poor heathen away from his barbaric ways and into a proper, cultured world. All he had been given, the clothes, the good food, the nice bed in a nice house- that creature deserved none of it. After the child had calmed enough to finally be let out of the house Gaul would taunt and tease him and would encourage the other young ones to do the same; if he wanted to act uncivilised_ fine _, let him have his way. Maybe if they laughed at him he'd realise how shameful he was acting._

_Rome also did not much like Britannia. He liked his territory, and he was in awe of his mother, but the child himself was nothing but a headache and Rome could only be tolerant for so long. When Britannia first tried to run away, he was understanding. By the fifth attempt though, he was furious. On the day of his escape Gaul, seeing his empire's anger, had silently volunteered to retrieve him and had slipped away. He knew Britannia could not have gone far, with the physical age of four his little legs would not carry him for long._

_About half a day's walk away, Gaul found him camped and resting underneath the branches of a low lying tree and, with a sudden flare of anger, kicked him awake with a swift jab in the side with his sandalled foot._

_Britannia awoke with a yelp and sprang to his feet, hissing his strange words at Gaul who_ _ignored him with a shove. 'Why do you always do this?'_

_Shove. Britannia growled at him and lunged forward to attack, but was easily knocked aside by the_ _older boy's hands and was again thrown to the floor._

_'You have been saved! You have a father who is doing so much for you! Even though you are so disrespectful he still makes so much time for you! Do you know how lucky you are?!'_

_Britannia did not spring back up but stayed on the ground, hunched and ready to spring. 'He no father.' His words were thick and difficult to understand but Gaul was shocked into silence. Then rage again, almost as quick. He could speak this whole time but his stubbornness and disobedience kept him chanting in those ugly words of his- how dare he! Yet Rome still_ tried _, Rome still cared and gave him so much attention, speaking to him day after day and trying to get him to eat his good food and wear the beautiful clothes that Britannia would instantly try to tear off. Someone so unworthy did not deserve someone so great as Rome! Gaul deserved that attention, not some low life savage child who obviously was too crass to accept the civilised lifestyle._

_It all happened very quickly._

_As Britannia went to stand up Gaul, anger hot and heavy in his chest, lifted his foot and kicked the younger boy square in the face, sending him flying backwards. A horrible crack followed as Britannia's head hit a rock near the tree's roots and his body lay still, face twisted off the the side with vacant and open eyes._

_Instantly, the rage Gaul has felt was washed away by intense panic and guilt. He hadn't meant to kick that hard and he didn't know about the rock; didn't do it on purpose and he never meant to really hurt him. Oh, what was Rome to say, would he think him a savage too?_

_Jerkily Gaul fell to his knees to check over the other colony, fingers gently brushed away his hair to see the damage at the back of his skull. The wound was large and the sight of brains and blood made him retch. He threw himself sidewards just in time and leant on his blood soaked hands by the tree for a while, panting and gathering the strength to look back. He'd seen dead bodies before, but never those he knew or those he'd personally killed and especially not another nation. He knew they healed though, and upon realising this he relaxed slightly. He'd just have to wait a bit, eventually Britannia would wake up and he could take him back to Rome and no one would have to know anything._

_Moving away from the tree, he leant back over Britannia and tentatively lifted his head off the rock_ _and arranged his body into a more comfortable position; it was the least he could do._

_~...~_

_Britannia never woke up. Gaul had sat there for the remainder of the day before he started truly panicking and ran back to tell Rome, expecting a beating for his crime or worse- to be thought of as the savage he tried so hard not to be. Instead Rome just sighed and shook his head sadly and murmured, 'he finally did it then,' before marching Gaul back to where he lay so he could collect his body and prepare it for burial._

_Even a savage nation, Gaul was told, is still a nation and they still deserved to be looked after in death, especially when they came as close to death as their kind ever did. A reset. It was Gaul's first introduction to the whole process, the shedding of an old body to be reborn in a new one, and he balked at the idea of actually_ dying _and not just getting better like he normally did._

_It would be at least 4 years, Britannia's physical age, before the biological part of the reset was complete, but he would stay with his new life for as long as his body lived, as a human. This, Rome said, was to keep them connected to their people- to live their life and understand their struggles allowed them as nations to understand them. Once Britannia's human body died, his nation self would return fully restored._

_On a trip to Londinium with Rome around 20 years later Gaul finally saw him again, slumped in a baggy piece of cloth outside the still smoking ruins of a Celtic settlement just outside of the new city. Gaul was thrilled to have him back, the relief at him being alive again helped ease away some of the guilt he didn't even know he'd been carrying and he ran to the boy, throwing this arms around the younger child and hugging him close._

_'Britannia! Oh, I'm so happy you're back! I had wanted to tell you that I didn't mean to push you, but you know that don't you? It was only because you had made me so angry but I'm willing to forget, that if you are.' The smell of burning wood and something a bit more sickly sweet was strong here and Gaul wanted to get away as soon as possible. He pulled back to see his answer but was met with a confused stare. Gaul took an involuntary step back and in doing so noticed a bit more. Britannia was disgusting, his clothing was covered in his own filth along the bottom, his hair smelt of mildew and he was still damp from seemingly yesterday's rain._

_'Who're... you.' The child mumbled, voice soft and hard to understand accompanied a vacant stare that seemed to look through the older colony._

_'Ah_ _! You can still speak then!' Gaul gave a nervous laugh. 'It is me, of course!'_

_Britannia said nothing but looked with vacant eyes, which promptly rolled back his legs folded beneath him as he fainted._

_Gaul gave a yelp of surprise. 'What's wrong with you?' He got no answer, and so stepped forward again to take a closer look. He was defiantly the right child and thus had certainly reset, yet why couldn't he remember and why was he acting so strange? Gaul chewed his lip, if he went to Rome and he saw Britannia like this, Gods knew what he'd do, he was already angry with the colony as it was, for running away, for being gone so long, and also for the fact that many of his peoples had been continuously rebelling since the occupation; tribes turning back on their promises to cooperate and some continuing to refuse as they still fought amongst themselves._

_Out of nowhere, he was struck with inspiration. Dashing back to Londinium, he rushed into the house they were staying in and to the small chamber where he slept. There, he had collected a few things of the other boy's meagre belongings from his feelings of remorse and regret before Rome had had his body buried, on the off chance that their empire would get rid of them out of irritation. Most of his things weren't worth keeping, but Gaul had been attracted to a shiny, solid gold torc that Britannia must have held very dear. It was the ultimate symbol of his heritage, his status was wrought in the metal and woven in with the delicate designs, showing his rank to whoever saw him as a child of the earth. He was forbidden from wearing it and was ordered to relinquish it, but somehow it had ended up back in Britannia's possession, (Gaul suspected mother Greece at the time) and Gaul had found it squirrelled away under a hole, hidden by a rug, in the boy's room._

_The boy had moved little since Gaul had left, he was awake again at least but was wandering listlessly in front of the settlement's entrance and still looked half dead. Gaul bounded up to him before he thrust the torc under his nose,_ _then gave a scream as Britannia suddenly came alive and lunged for it, nails scratching against skin in his haste._

_Despite his disdain for the boy's currently hygiene, he sat and hugged him, tightening his arms around Britannia's body as he screamed and c_ _ried for the past he could no longer have as the memories finally returned._

* * *

England thought that it would be hard for him to sleep that night but to his great relief he slipped away almost immediately. Days of stressful travel finally released an almost primal need for rest and quiet and being in his own home in his own land at last was all that he needed. He retired earlier than usual, at about 9, and slept deeply; this he knew because he did not wake when France first slunk into his room, nor did he stir when the other's arms first wrapped themselves around England's torso. He only woke because one of them must have turned or moved because he eventually found himself to have a dead arm and France shrieking in panic as he fell out of the large king sized bed.

He blearily opened his eyes and pushed himself up on an elbow. 'What the-? Francis?'

France swore colourfully but got up quickly to slip back underneath the blankets. 'What on earth is wrong with you?'

'Me?' England was finding it hard to keep talking, sleep already trying to pull in back under. He noted that the time was only 4:07, plenty of time left before they had to go anywhere, and lay back down. 'I didn't even ask you to sleep here, I don't see how it's my fault.'

'Ah Arthur, it has been many, many years, I know that you wanted me to be here rather than all the way down the hall.'

He moved closer to kiss at the exposed skin of the other's neck and was incredibly insulted that rather than respond either with something in return or at least a fist to the face for his attempt, England had snuggled down further and was almost asleep again.

France sighed but let him be. After finally coming to his full senses England had left him alone with some newspapers and the old laptop to catch up on world news and events; he made the connection of Kent's massive flooding epidemic with Arthur's limp and lack of sleeping rather quickly. Being in another nation away from his people wouldn't have helped him to recover and France was grateful for him staying behind at the home with him-

France stopped himself. With Francis.

Not him, not France. But Francis: small, human, Francis.

It would take a while to disassociate himself again and to stop thinking of Francis' life as his own, but it needed to be done. No good would come from becoming too involved in something that represented something as small as a life of a character in a book. Finish the story and you let them go.

Resetting for good for nations, it allowed them to get so in tune with their people and culture that it offered a fresh perspective about a human's life of today. What good would a nation be if they grew up as a child through the middle ages, or learnt to be polite and speak as an adult during the Renaissance? To be rich when all being rich once meant was that you could buy new clothes whenever you wished to do so? Ideas of behaviour, of society, or thought and feeling changed so often that the nation could grow at risk of not understanding the human condition, or not empathising quite as well as they should do. How can a now grand, rich country know what it feels like to grow up in poverty in the 1800's when the country himself suffered constant starvation in the 1200's? How are the two the same, one with constant war and disease and civil war and low infant mortality, when the other has, in comparison, better living conditions? But, by being given the chance to experience a whole life again from birth to death, every few centuries, a nation could once again comprehend that yes, though easier, life was still difficult. Hardships changed appearance but there were always obstacles for a human to overcome. Their people were built from the stuff of today and the importance of this was not to be forgotten.

But they had to remember that these brief human experiences were just that, experiences. Francis' life had no meaning to France the nation and France would never put ideas or morals of Francis into practise because they were not _his,_ they belonged to the man Francis, a small memory of the giant being that was the nation of the Republic. But, they were useful to have. Modern life was so different and had changed so quickly in such a short amount of time from any other time period of human history that a fresh outlook from the ordinary man's life was extremely helpful.

The matter of Francis' attempted murder over France's case, however, was something he was going to have to be very much involved in.

He sighed and lay down properly, head resting heavily on the pillow. Whatever it was for or whomever it was who tried to steal it, they had not succeeded and France's most precious memories were, now, safe once again. Still, it worried him how very close they had got, whoever 'they' were; no human should know about something so detrimental. The items themselves would mean nothing, of course, but there was still that attraction towards it, the nationalistic pride that could maybe give way to sudden realisation of just exactly _whose_ case it was and _why_ it was so important.

Someone had obviously come close to making that connection if they were willing to kill over it.

France rolled over to once again drape his arms around England. As far as he knew, it was only he and England that helped hurry the reset along with personal objects intended to jog the memory, but it wasn't something most nations spoke about. It was such a personal thing and not all nations were as good at reconnecting to themselves as others so there was a sort of unspoken rule that it was rude to ask. But maybe now was a time to start asking, maybe this had happened before.

England was comfortably warm, and France found himself slowly relaxing. Thirteen years of being stuck as an old man without any physical closeness to another creature was not something he was willing to extend, no matter his bedfellow.

After about half an hour, his mind was close to switching off, so close to letting him doze now because at least now his case was safe he could...

Wait.

France's eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright, twisting to grip England firmly by the shoulders and shake him awake.

England reacted as many ex-soldiers do and immediately tried to attack, blindly swinging a fist forward which France luckily managed to miss. He was defiantly awake now and considerably angrier than last time.

'What the fuck is wrong with you?!'

'Arthur, I was murdered!'

England looked at this as though he'd suddenly confessed he had a small soft spot for wine. 'So!?' He pulled back a leg and tried to kick France off from where he was now almost straddled across his lap. 'Get the _fuck_ out, what the hell is your problem you absolute pri-'

France swiftly moved out of the way and sat more on his knees and leaning forward to try and grip England shoulders again, ignoring his incredulity as he tried to make him see clearly that something was very very wrong, something that was far greater that they'd previously thought to consider.

'No, me, France; I was murdered eighty nine years ago! Not Francis the other day, not Francis by you, but _me._ I was murdered in my government building.'

England groaned and shook his shoulders free. 'Yes, we all know, it was quite a big scandal at the tim-'

'No!' France interrupted, 'Yes, that is true, but you're looking at the wrong point!' Why wasn't England getting this?

'You came to see me that day, remember?'

England frowned. 'Yes… I think came over to drop off my case, it had been a while since I'd changed a few of the bits inside.'

France waved his hand, trying to hurry him along. 'Yes, yes, yes and?' England was silent. 'Oh, think about it, you stupid man! _You_ have had my case, yes? My case is _here_. Whose case do you think you were giving me just before I was shot?! Who the hell has been looking after it if I've been dead for nearly ninety years?'

England's eyes widened, mouth forming an almost perfect 'o' before uttering a small, 'fuck.'

France threw his hands up in triumph and rolled off the bed to begin pacing. England, meanwhile, had paled and was leaning weakly against the headboard. 'My case has been missing for all these years.'

France gave a derisive snort and continued pacing.

England continued, voice slightly laced with something that a lesser man would identify as panic. 'This wasn't some random hit job on you; this is probably connected. They could have easily broken into it after all this time and know everything about me.'

France made to stand in front of the window, one hand holding his chin and another absent mindedly running itself through his hair. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Arthur hunch forward and rest his head on his knees. 'Oh God, I can hardly remember what I put in there!'

Suddenly his head snapped up. 'Who was it who shot you?'

France flailed the hand that was rubbing his jaw. 'It was a man called Julien Durand, but I have no idea what happened to him, nor if he was the one behind the whole thing or just the one following orders. The last thing I remember is him confronting me about you for something he thought you'd done and then being shot.'

England got out of bed and crossed the room quickly to turn on some lights but didn't stop, he threw open the door and quickly strode downstairs, calling over his shoulder, 'When were you planning on reintroducing yourself to your government?'

France tutted in annoyance but followed after him, down into the living room where the poor old laptop was again being forced on. 'I was hoping for a week off to relax in my vineyard at least, but I have a feeling you probably have other ideas.'

England didn't answer, but sat scrunched over the screen, waiting for it to load and boot up.

Francis wandered over to sit in the armchair diagonally left of him. 'Arthur,' No response, he tried again, ' _My dear_ , whatever has happened has happened, there's no point in rushing straight back over there right away.'

Now that the immediate adrenalin of realisation had worn off, logically France saw that there was nothing that could be done to prevent what had already probably been done. His own case wasn't taken, meaning that the secret of nations was probably safe for now. After all, poignant English things in the hands of a Frenchman were unlikely to cause him to understand so great a concept as that of personified nationhood, but his _own_ nation's; well, that would be a different story.

Voicing these ideas to his partner though, had no effect other than to get England angrier. 'So that's all fine then? Now who's stupid.'

France answered drily, 'Do not mistake stubborn refusal of stupidity for stupidity itself.'

England gave him a frosty glare. 'No, you are not thinking about this from all angles. Consider this then.' He raised his left hand to hold up a finger, 'someone with an obvious connection to your original murder took my case and has either passed this information on, or has continued looking for _your_ case all these years.'

He raised another finger. 'They have just been thwarted from again trying to kill for it after decades of silence; in my years of keeping an eye on you I've noticed nothing to arouse suspicion.'

He raised a third finger, but France already understood and answered for him. 'If they're willing to wait that long, they're willing to wait again. They'll disappear.'

England nodded. 'And we won't catch them. If the person who shot you has a semi-solid idea of what you are from either information beforehand or from my case, then they know you'll continue to exist and will make an obvious connection to them as a first suspect as soon as you re-enter the political sphere and especially after what happened in Fouras. If I were human with any lick of sense, I'd've hired someone skilled and younger who knew what they were doing.'

France took a deep breath in through his nose and gave a sigh of resignation, before leaning his head back against the headrest. 'Meaning, if we don't go now and follow a fresh trail-'

'-We'll lose all leads once that old politician and his connections die, or once whoever has taken over from him dies.' England finished and looked at him, giving a pause before he spoke again carefully. 'I am not asking you to come with me, but I would prefer if you waited until this is sorted before going back officially. We don't know what they know but we do know that they know too much.'

Shaking his head slightly, France resigned himself to his fate. 'No, I shall come. This is as much my problem as it is yours, and we cannot leave this as it is.' Out of the corner of his eye he saw England give a small smug look and carry on clicking his way to look at ferry crossing times. Anyone who knew him really well though, would see that he was thankful for the help, though he'd never admit to that. France grinned to himself and shut his eyes. So much for his quiet week back at the vineyard.

* * *

_The recently formed Kingdom of the Franks came to his senses gripping a metal brooch tightly in his fist, hands clasped so tightly over the metal that the press of its edges into his skin was now so painful that he was starting to lose some feeling. The brooch was a gift from Rome before he'd vanished and it was one of the most treasure things he owned. His face was covered in tears but he made no attempt to wipe them away, instead he stared_ _bleary eyed up at the boy in a rough homespun tunic before him._

_'Why are you here?' His voice was hoarse; he remembered screaming at some point, but he couldn't quite focus on the memory enough to gain any meaning from it._

_'I felt you come back so I came_ _to check. You were walking in the woods over there and were talking to yourself.' The boy pointed behind him to a thick, dark woods that Franks knew he had fought someone in not too long ago, in a different life._

_'You looked foolish, I thought I'd save y_ _ou from the shame of embarrassing yourself.' The other boy looked away awkwardly and worried the ground with a boot tip. 'Besides, you did it for me.'_

_Franks didn't know how to really answer that and instead relaxed his grip to fold the brooch over and ov_ _er in his palm. It hurt too much to think properly at the moment, his head was trying to absorb the true and overwhelming reality of what he is against what he'd spent the last 35 years doing. 'Thanks.'_

_Englaland reddened and gave a quick shrug with both_ _shoulders, looking very unsure of himself. 'Yeah... um. That's okay, 's only fair.'_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for all the support you have shown me and this stroy, I hope you enjoyed the latest update. Thank you all for all of the kudos and comments, I eagerly await your opinions and I hope that you are still enjoying what I produce.
> 
> Let me know your thoughts, and I'll see you soon!
> 
> Edit: Sweet Jesus this chapter was a pain to edit. I hope now most of the confusion has been cleared up but if there's anything that's still a bit too vague or unclear please let me know what to focus on so I can fix it!


	7. You Can't Run if Your Legs Can't Carry You

 

You Can't Run if Your Legs Can't Carry You

'Do you think we should take this as a hint?'

England didn't reply but France knew that he was awake. They were back in England's bedroom, lights off and tucked under heavy blankets that were doing their best to fight off the chill. The sheets and blankets of England's big bed were soft and still smelt fresh and clean from their washing the day before, but despite the comfort Francis found himself unable to get his restless mind from working. After hashing out a quick plan of action downstairs, the two nations had eventually accepted that there was no more that could be done that night and now had nothing better to do than try to go back to sleep. Tomorrow they'd take a Eurostar into Paris, and from there travel to the French government buildings, the National Assembly in Paris, to find out what had happened to Monsieur Durand, France's murderer from all those years ago _._ Despite the high profile scandal he had caused by shooting France, nothing about what consequence befell him could be found from an internet search.

'Humans are living far too long now,' France mused, laying on his back and staring at the dark ceiling, 'it's making this whole thing far too complicated. The cases are supposed to make things _easier_ , you know.'

He turned his head right to look at the lump next to him, but England's back was turned and he could only make out the back of his head.

Deciding not to press the issue, he closed his eyes. He could sympathise with what he assumed England was feeling; the matter of their resets wasn't something they discussed very often -they didn't need to- but France had a suspicion that England was far more attached to the whole idea than he was. England hated, amongst many other things, to be anything other than in complete control of himself. A notorious control freak, stumbling about for days unable to recall who he was or to be in control of something as simple as staying awake was possibly one of England's primary fears. That, and of course being _seen_ by others in that condition. To have weakness acknowledged. His stubborn pride and need to keep up appearances might drive France crazy most of the time, but even he dreaded even thinking about extending the reset process back to its natural duration.

'We can learn from this, make sure it doesn't happen again.' England's quiet voice prodded France away from the doze he'd been about to slip into. 'The main issue was that I didn't consider the possibility of you-' He stopped his sentence abruptly. It was going to take some time for both of them to get used to the name changes. 'Of _Francis_ going into a home. Before, dying at our houses or in battle meant case would either be found after the reset or the other could bring it but it'd never be _long._ '

England sighed through his nose. 'The concept of living for so long never occurred to me, we've never done so before.'

'The populations have never been this healthy and stable before.' France reminded him, 'I assume that's why you followed me into the home?'

England hummed in agreement. 'Once I noticed you'd gone in there I followed you. I thought I'd either smuggle the body out or I'd reset you quick, depending on the time or day Francis died. Either way, I'd know what happened straight away and could prevent the inevitable medical nightmare. Once I was in there, of course, I was in it for the long haul.'

Francis felt him turn to lay on his back.

'Which, was a mistake.' England admitted. 'I was away from home for too long and if there hadn't been a problem, Francis could have lived for another five or even ten years with the right care.'

'Oh don't say that,' France groaned, flinging an arm up to rest over his eyes, the motion bouncing them slightly, 'he was so bored. Could you not have killed him sooner?'

'Could have done,' Arthur agreed far too easily, 'but most of our people are now going through that part of the ageing process; I thought s'probably a good idea to experience it.'

There was a lull between them for a few minutes as France contemplated how to tackle the very awkward elephant in the room.

'You know, Arthur, that's not what I was talking about.'

France turned to look right again and this time was met with England's eyes, open and fixed upon him with an unreadable expression. 'The cases themselves are no longer necessary, in this day and age. Transport is so fast and accessible, and then there's the technology...'

England sighed again and turned back over. 'I know.'

France fixed the back on his head with concern, conflicted between being annoyed at the man's stubbornness and wanting to tell him that he too preferred the comforting presence of being nearby France's things as a human, when deep inside his human subconscious a nation waited patiently to come back to awareness. He chose instead to roll away from him and ignore the issue for now. He supposed he was just as stubborn.

* * *

England woke to an empty bed and a feeling of dread and mild panic in his stomach once he remembered all that needed to be done today. He pushed his face into his pillow and groaned before sitting up and blearily rubbing his eyes to encourage them to adjust faster to the bright sunlight that was breaking through the curtain in his room.

Wait...Sunlight...

What time was it?

He turned his head away from the window to his bedside table to search for his phone, but discovered that it wasn't where he left it. There neither was his wristwatch on his wrist, nor the clock that usually hung on the wall above his dresser.

Grumbling with irritation he got out of bed, put on the new jumper he'd bought yesterday to keep off the chill and made his way to the bathroom to freshen up. He stopped on the landing when he heard voices talking downstairs in the kitchen. Voices, plural, meaning that there was now someone _else_ in his house.

When he eventually made his way downstairs he found Wales sitting at his kitchen table, a mug of tea in hand, and happily chatting to France who, despite his usual complaints about them, was dressed in some more of England's old clothes and busy poking at something that smelt irritatingly delicious on his stove.

'What are you doing here?' This England directed towards his brother, who looked up quickly and smiled at him in greeting.

'Hello to you too. And I felt you come back, so I thought I'd bring by some bits for you both.' He gestured with one hand to the chair next to him, upon which rested a bag for life filled with clothes. 'Just until you pop back, either to London or Meriden. (1) The least I could do whilst I'm using your London flat.'

England didn't know how to respond to such unexpected thoughtful kindness and sat down dumbly to accept a plate, without argument, of few fluffy pancakes that France placed in his hands. Wales understood though, probably from the confused and bewildered expression on his face, and chuckled, happily accepting his own plate from France who soon enough joined them.

'What are you doing in London?' England asked between mouthfuls of pancake.

Too used to England's personality to be offended by the question or change of conversation, Wales answered easily, 'Welsh government talks with the PM. It's the annual review.'

'Ah.'

The meal continued in comfortable silence until France decided to rudely break it. 'Took you long enough to wake up.'

England raised his eyes and narrowed them in suspicion. 'Why, what time is it?'

France put a hand into his pocket and withdrew England's missing wrist watch before sliding it across the table to him, smirking and raising his mug to take a drink. 'Past 12pm.'

England almost choked on a pancake. 'Why didn't you wake me up?! We were supposed to leave around midday!'

Talking over Wales' quiet query of where they were supposed to be going, France replied flippantly, 'You have been sleep deprived for too long, my dear. You're far too insufferable as it is, I wasn't planning on going anywhere with you when you'd be even worse to put up with.'

'Um... where are you both-'

'Excuse me?!' England shrieked indignantly.

'I only have your best interests at heart, of course.'

'Oh of course you do arsehole, it's not your stuff we're worried about now though, is it.'

'Sorry but can someone tell me what you're talking about-'

'And what's that supposed to mean?' France glared at England.

'Oh you know perfectly well what I mea-'

'Hey!'

They both stopped to turn to look at the usually calm and quiet Wales.

'What on earth are you talking about? Where are you going?' Wales had pulled his face into a frown, and was now sat expectantly, long, gangly arms crossed over his chest.

England's irritation immediately cooled and he rubbed a hand absently mindedly over an old scar on his neck. 'Oh, I er...we need to go and visit a colleague whom I was working with in France, we think she knows something about France's case and we want to make sure she doesn't know too much.' This wasn't a lie, they planned on visiting Amélie later- as the newest member of staff who appeared around the time of the disturbances, she certainly wasn't someone to overlook.

Wales raised a dark eyebrow. 'Can you not just call or email? You've only just got back Arthur, you should stay and at least rest up a bit from the floods before you run off again, I'm sure she can wait.'

England flushed and retorted hotly, 'I'm not _running off_ thank you very much, and I feel perfectly fine.' He quickly looked at France, who swiftly stood up and began to noisily clear away the breakfast things. England didn't know if France had shared their reset tradition with anyone, or how much, but England's brothers were aware of most of it. They didn't know the reason -they hadn't asked and weren't told- but they knew about the process.

England didn't really know how comfortable he felt about sharing this much detail about something this personal, but if he could trust anyone on the planet with any sort of personal problem Wales was probably at the top of the list.

'My case has gone missing,' he finally admitted, almost sheepishly, as if this whole thing was a whole lots less bothersome than it actually was, 'Someone one stole it eighty years ago when France was murdered, so n-'

'So now you're going to go back to France...and what? Most of Kent is flooded, Arthur. I would ask if you even feel the effects because of how long you were gone but judging how shit you're walking on that leg it seems that you still possess the ability to feel to some degree. Shame you left your bloody common sense behind.'

France sucked in some air through his teeth. Patient and calm he may be with his unassuming, dreamlike expressions and gentle manner, but it seemed that Wales was just as good at causing verbal harm as the rest of his brothers. Maybe more so, Wales was the type of person to stay silent until he caught you by surprise once he knew exactly how lethal he wanted to be.

Wiping his hands dry on a towel, France cleverly made his escape from the kitchen just as angry sounding Welsh started to snap in the air and disappeared upstairs to pack, leaving England to his fate.

* * *

They were fortunate that they didn't need to book a seat on the Eurostar; England's passport was enough to grant them two seats on the first train that pulled up, reserved for people especially like them, although some talking had to be done on France's behalf due to his lack of any identity whatsoever.

Wales was a kind man if nothing else, far kinder than England knew he deserved, and so despite his very vocal opposition to their plan he had driven them to the station in his car to save them from either hiring another car or using public transport, albeit in a very stony silence. Once at the station he'd glared at France, hugged England once, then turned and got back into his car all without a single word.

The train journey itself passed by uneventfully. England used the time to catch France up on any major work events he had missed and to inform him of all the little things he had found suspicious in the home. France then shared his, and it was unnerving how long many things England had missed. He was angry with himself- that he could admit, even if not out loud. Angry that he didn't pay more attention to Francis' changing mannerisms, angry that he'd allowed himself to get complacent over time, and angry that now he felt as though he was playing catch up on a game he'd helped design. Angry that this whole situation was so fucking preventable but he just couldn't see where it all truly began.

'I should have paid more attention to Francis.' he admitted quietly, after a brief silence. 'His behaviour was unusual but I allowed myself to believe that it was related to the nightmares, rather than taking the time to make sure there was nothing else.'

Out of the corner of his eye he could see France looking at him, face blank. He didn't respond for a while. Eventually, 'It was not an unreasonable assumption to make.'

England glanced up.

'They were part of it,' France continued, 'they helped fuel his paranoia. He knew he was being watched, but with the recent increase of nightmares, the change of drugs-' France waved a hand lazily, as if to dismiss the lingering melancholy, 'Well. Despite what he said, he was also well aware of his age. He was no fool, he knew how crazy he sounded. I cannot begrudge you for sharing his sentiments.'

England tutted bitterly. 'I stayed for the sole purpose to be there to oversee the reset's completion safely. It feels almost wasted now that it's come to this.'

France inclined his head in agreement. 'From this outcome, yes, _you_ would think that way.'

England bristled and opened his mouth to retort when France swiftly shut him up. 'I appreciate it, you know, that you stayed for so long. He appreciated your honesty with him too. You treated him like a human being and he relied on that. If nothing else, he took comfort in you and that will never be a waste.'

England blushed to his ears and looked away awkwardly, fiddling with the strap on the rucksack he'd brought with him. 'If you wish to see sentimentality as an important factor, you mean.'

France grinned at him knowingly. 'Of course.'

The conversation slipped to a natural end after that and they soon found themselves stepping out onto the Gare du Nord with France all but bursting with barely contained joy. Thanks to his lie-in, it was now 4pm and England, already annoyed at being behind his schedule, curtailed France's plans of re-exploring his city and manhandled him into the Metro to go to the National Assembly. It was here where they hit their first problem: they did not have permission to access where the old employee records were kept.

They were thusly stood in front of a very locked door, trying to think of a way to get in without looking suspicious. Slipping away from their tour group had been easy enough, despite no one knowing who, or what, France himself represented, he was their nation and possessed the ability to divert his peoples' attention enough to slip away undetected. From now on, however, would prove to be a bit harder.

'Are you sure they're through here?'

'That's where they were kept when I last worked here.'

'That's not what I asked you though, is it.' England huffed.

France fought the urge to roll his eyes and instead bent down to inspect the lock panel. 'This would all be so much easier if I just reintroduced myself to my government first.' He muttered, straightening again when he accepted that there was no weakness that they could pick.

'No, it wouldn't,' England leant against the wall, hands in his pockets for a lack of better things to do. They'd left their bags in lockers at the station and England was already regretting that he'd left his phone there as well, 'because then there'd be the whole process of actually getting to meet the right people, then you'd have to sit down and explain everything and go through all that sodding process and all the while your president's going to want to discuss your role and what work you do and how you help them; dear God Francis, it'll take weeks.'

Unwilling to admit the truth to the other's words out loud, France sighed whilst tying his hair up into a ponytail. 'Well, I do hope you've got anther idea then because we're stuck rather early on.'

The both straightened suddenly upon hearing footsteps and quickly crossed the corridor to sit on a bench opposite the door, under a window, and tried to appear more like tourists taking a break.

'I think we should visit that café we passed earlier for dinner.' England wrinkled his nose slightly as he spoke, but his French sounded pleasant and relaxed.

France leant forward, swinging a leg up so he could rest an elbow on his knee. 'Oh, I do agree, then after that we could go for a walk along the river back to our hotel, where I can make sweet, long love to you all night lo-'

England swung a punch which France dodged, jumping up from the bench laughing as a security guard passed them, averting his eyes with a polite smile.

Once they were safely alone again, England stood and they both walked back over to the door. 'You can wipe that shit eating grin off your face now, arsehole.' He said, reverting back to English.

'Oh but Arthur, your French is such a delight to hear. I do hope you'll continue to use it with me.' The usually spoke their own languages to each other and even after all this time France still enjoyed the novelty of forcing England to speak French. England made a point to never speak French unless he had to, mimicking France's own attitudes about refusing to use English.

'Not bloody likely,' he huffed in return.

'Why must you hurt me so with the Norman accent, it seems as though you're implying something.' (2)

England gave a sly grin. 'Maybe I am, twat. Now,' his eyes turned to the lock again, 'security or no, they're probably hundreds of cameras about that know we're hovering here, I say let's hurry this up.'

'You seem to have forgotten that we have no way to do that.'

'Have you tried your old access number?'

France stared at him condescendingly. 'I hardly think that will still be active.'

'Have you tried?' England pressed.

'I really think that my security would be better than- oh.' A series of happy sounding beeps emitted from the lock panel as a little light turned green. 'Shut up.'

'I wasn't going to say anything-.'

'Then don't.'

'But I'm honestly not surprised.'

France punched him.

* * *

It had been about an hour since he'd last seen France, and England was starting to grow slightly concerned. Not for the frog, mind you, but concerned that there was nothing to be found here after all. He'd left most of the searching to France, not really knowing enough about where everything was kept to do much more than leaf through a few confidential looking folders. Instead, he'd gone for a brief but thorough search about the archive room, making note of any cameras and any other forms of security he could see. Despite the time they took to get in, it seemed as though they were okay to stay and he could find no reason that they'd alerted anyone to their uninvited presence. The lax security would definitely not be allowed in London, and he made a mental note to give them a check up when he got back. The archive room was dimly lit and silent, with yellowed lights scattered seemingly absentmindedly across aisles of tall, well stacked metal shelves. England usually liked rooms like this, dark and quiet, but he couldn't seem to get himself to relax properly.

He took himself for a wander after about another half an hour of sitting and found France huddled on the floor with a scattering of folders about him in a narrow aisle between two of the many shelves.

'Find anything?' He poked at the nearest folder to him with his foot and France looked up in irritation.

'You could be helping.'

'I don't know where anything is.'

'You didn't ask.'

'Fuck sake, just answer the damn question.' England crouched down to rest on his feet and opened the folder he had prodded earlier.

'Yes, yes I found something.'

'Oh?'

'Nothing much that will help us though.' He quickly added, seeing England's hopeful expression. 'But I know what happened to him.'

He put down the folder he was reading to pick open another and quickly leafed through it until he found the pages he was looking for. 'According to the records, Durand was immediately imprisoned for high treason, of which he served 25 years. Despite killing _me_ of all people, the people in the know couldn't keep him longer than was normal and so he was released. He was only 27 when he shot me, so was released at 52.'

England sat down fully. 'Sounds ordinary so far.'

'It gets better,' France promised and flipped a few more pages. 'You see, the people who knew _exactly_ what he did, AKA kill the actual Republic himself, decided to put a few measures in place to make the punishment a bit more effective.'

'Such as?'

'Such as be patient and let me _finish_.' France snapped back. 'Such _as,_ he was prohibited from holding any more positions of power in any sector and a cap was put in place on his maximum earnings.'

'So, more of a humiliation then.'

'It would seem so.' France sighed. 'And if his family were anything like I remember them to be, I'm sure he was disowned as well. The Durands were rather wealthy; to go from a comfortable lifestyle and a high paying, well respected job to working minimum wage with no family support and a criminal record I'm sure we have more than enough motive to mark him as a number one suspect.' France worried at his lip before continuing, a habit England knew he rarely succumbed to.

'He had a pregnant wife, now ex, and a 5 year old daughter as well at the time. Not only that, but he was the last person I saw that had any sort of contact with your case.'

'If I remember rightly,' England said, 'he made a run for it and got clean away for a good five hours; he could have passed off my case to someone before he was caught or he could have hid it to find later on.'

'He also thought that he was eliminating a threat to the French government,' France added, 'if anything he probably thought he was helping. He did seem a bit...mentally unstable at the time.'

England rolled his eyes. 'Yes, because only completely sane people go about shooting people in a government building. By the fact that we're still here I'm assuming there is a problem.'

'Oh yes, he's very much dead.'

England sighed and tipped his head back to lean against the shelf. 'Great. Now what.'

France shrugged and started scooping up the folders, resting up on his knees. 'Now, I suppose we could go and visit Amélie. Maybe stop off at the home as well and figure out what happened to all the staff and the CCTV. Hopefully one of them will give us another lead.'

'I can't go back to the home.' England interjected quickly. 'We have no idea who was involved or how many, I'm probably wanted for questioning as it is and going into Fouras is bad enough.'

'If we let me introduce myself to my government-'

'No. That will take way too long. We're already giving whoever was involved enough time to get away and hide as it is.'

'Fine.' France tutted at him and stood up. 'We do this the hard way.'

* * *

Many hours later, they were back in a car.

They were back in a car and if that wasn't the only problem, despite being seven in the evening, it was still sunny. Adding to England's irritation, this time France was driving. Unlike Francis, France himself got incredibly travel sick in anything more modern than a horse -though trains he seemed to be able to cope with- and had insisted that he be in charge of the car, especially now that they were back in his own lands.

England sighed and let his head loll slightly with the car's movements, eyes gazing outwards on the rapidly passing countryside. _French_ countryside. He tutted, and felt rather than saw France's irritated look.

'What on _earth_ is your problem now?'

England turned his head lazily. 'Oh, you mean other than your presence?'

'Look, I said I didn't mean to run the red, I don't see what you gain from continuing to hold it against me.'

'What I gain?!' England sat up incredulously. 'Other than the fact that not only am I back in a fucking car, but I'm back in fucking _France_. You seem to also be forgetting that we're trying not to draw attention to ourselves as I am probably wanted by police!'

'Continuing to bitch about something I cannot change will not make your situation any better so why don't you _shut up.'_

France's retort was sharp, tone leaving little opening to continue the conversation, and England scowled witheringly, stopping himself from falling back into an old and familiar pattern of loathing. He was already long past regretting asking France to come with him and wished that this whole thing would just go away so he could finally go back home to his lands and stay there until he felt better. The pain of parting from his people so soon after returning to them was still fresh, although France was almost as familiar to him as England was his heart ached with the need to go home and be surrounded by his own territory.

The worst part was, he didn't know how long this trip would take. They hadn't had much to pack, nor much time to buy anything new, and the only clothes they had were things they had scrounged from his Kent summer house and a few more articles of clothing Wales had brought down.

'You need the next turning on the left.'

France did as he was bidden in terse silence and they turned from the countryside into the edges of an suburban estate; similar looking houses huddled together to sit on the sides of the road and form a wall to the flat greenery beyond.

'Okay, now go right and look for a 57.'

'It's a nice place, I didn't think carers earnt enough to afford this, especially if she lives alone.' France thought out loud, 'Where did you live?'

'None of your business.'

France gave an exasperated sigh but let the matter drop and pulled the car up to a stop once they were outside the right building. They both sat in silence for a moment, staring at the house.

'Who should knock? She knows you,' France turned to England, 'but I could say I was a long lost relative of Francis or something.' It was strange to use his name in what felt like the third person, but to actually be speaking about someone else. (3)

'How would you know where she lives, or even who she is.' England paused for a bit. 'Or why you'd even be here to talk to her in the first place. No, I should go.'

'What will you say to her?'

'No idea.' With that, England opened his door, got out of the car and quickly walked up the path to knock on the front door. France stayed sitting, watching him through the window.

England waited for a bit and when he received no answer, knocked again. After a brief wait, he placed his hand on the handle and gently gave it a slight twist.

It moved easily. France saw his small look of surprise before he let go of the handle as though it burned him and then England turned his head to lock eyes with him. France quickly got out of the car, locking it behind him and met up with his fellow nation at the front step.

'What's wrong?'

'Something's not right.' England's voice was a low murmur. He took hold on the handle again and twisted fully, opening the door slowly to prevent any creaks or groans from the hinges.

The hallways was dark and quiet and the air felt thick and heavy with the silence and the weight of something. The curtains all seemed to be shut but, thanks to the low sunlight outside hitting the windows more directly, they could still see. France soundlessly shut the door behind them and motioned to England that he was going left, into the living room. England nodded, and shifted his eyes upwards and inclined his head- he was going to try upstairs.

This would be very hard to explain now, France thought to himself distantly, if she was just sleeping in her room. But England was right, something felt wrong and there was a familiar- ah.

Upstairs, England had found nothing and no one in any of the two bedrooms or bathroom. Only one room was decorated with any personal touches and so Amélie's room he could identify with certainty, but the guest room had unmade sheets on the bed which indicated the presence of someone other than herself  fairly recently. England felt a little uncomfortable about his invasiveness and so, finding nothing unusual, slipped downstairs to find France and making a mental note to himself to go over the photographs he'd seen dotted about before they left. In their unplanned entrance neither of them had taken off their shoes and England regretted this increasingly as he tried not to thump his way down the stairs in his boots.

The closer he got to the living room, the stronger the feeling he had first felt by the doorway grew and he soon smelt the all too familiar scent of blood make its way to him through the still air.

Amélie was on her sofa at the far end of the living room, sat down but with her head thrown back on the headrest. Her arms lay limply either side of her, one palm upturned, and her legs were positioned as if she were sitting. In fact, if it wasn't for the giant hole in her forehead and brains scattered amongst the blood in her hair, she looked as though she was simply resting on the sofa. Her expression was one of slight surprise, mouth hanging slightly open and eyes wide and glassy. She had quite obviously been shot.

Despite his many years of experience, England's gut still twisted and he had to grit his teeth and swallow to stop the bile that was threatening to rise in his throat at the sight; the inside of skulls was something he didn't think he'd ever get fully used to.

France was standing by her head, slightly bent at the waist and inspecting the hole and the consequential blood splatter. Hearing England's slight noise of discomfort, he looked up before straightening himself to his full height.

'She was shot at almost a point blank range.' He walked around to stand in front of her and pointed an imaginary gun at her head. 'She must have been sitting already, or just about to rise because she remains upright and her limbs aren't too askew.'

France took a breath and then continued. 'I don't want to look too closely, but it seems as if that's her only injury, she seems otherwise unharmed.'

'Francis...'

'Nothing seems to have been disturbed, and nor are any windows broken. Though unlocked, the lock was not forced.' France continued, gesturing with one hand at the tidy room, at cabinets with their drawers untouched. 'We can easily say that she knew whoever did this to her, well enough that she let them in her home. It was quick, she didn't expect this at all.' He finished, looking at a spot on the sofa near Amélie's body and pointedly not looking at the remains of her face.

England stood uncertainly in the entrance way on the room, wanting to apologise but not really knowing how to or even what for. Instead he cleared his throat, chided himself on his hesitation and stepped further into the room to take a closer look for himself. She looked as though she had been dead since at least that morning but to test this assumption he knelt by her hand and gently pressed the back of his hand to her skin. It was waxy in texture, ashen in colour and the underside of the  hand itself had already turned a deep red colour as the blood and filtered down to the limb from the rest of the body. Then, he nudged it slightly to test how much movement it would allow. It would not budge- rigor mortis had taken control.

'I'd say about 8 hours, maybe an hour more or less.' He said finally. 'Late morning or midday.'

France, who had been watching the process in silence, agreed. 'I'd say so.' He looked to England, who had straightened and was wiping the back of his hand on his trousers, trying to get the disconcerting waxy feeling of dead skin off himself. 'I cannot find the gun, though I doubt it'd be here. Find anything upstairs?'

'No.' England stopped rubbing and glanced at the closed curtains to check for any gaps that they could be seen through. 'I didn't want to check about her room in case she was in; now I don't want to leave much evidence behind.'

France said nothing, but continued to stare at Amélie with a sad look in his eye.

'We shouldn't stay too long,' said England softly, 'if we're going to search about we need to move fast, before anyone notices anything amiss.'

France gave a slight nod and released a breath. 'I know. It's a shame we were too late.'

'It is.' England waited to see if he'd say anything else, but with no elaboration forthcoming he ducked out of the room to continue searching upstairs, leaving Francis where he stood. As he passed his neighbour, he almost reached out a hand to touch his shoulder, but stopped himself before he did, brushing his arm with his as he passed instead.

He would have comforted Francis, he admitted to himself back upstairs. Never one who had been comfortable in initiating physical contact with another person anyway, England still would have been able to rest a hand on his shoulder and talk to him honestly. But with France there was so much between them, so much _history_ , that he never knew where they stood or how to truly act regarding intimacy. Francis had begun to incorporate much of France's personality in his later years, perhaps the closer to death the man grew the more of his true self subconsciously filtered into his human opinions and mannerisms, and now England had to keep reminding himself in subtle ways that they were very separate people with very different social behaviours attached.

He took a deep breath to help clear his head, and begun his meticulous search for a clue of what to do next.

* * *

France turned up nothing interesting in the living room, nor in the kitchen or downstairs bathroom. From the fridge and the sink he could tell that another person has been staying in the house recently, there were pairs of plates and glasses in the sink and a lot more fresh food than a single person would manage to eat. No clue as to who, however, and therefore no indication as to whether they were worth checking up on. If anything good had come from Amélie's death, it was that at least now they knew they were on the right path. She had known something and it had cost her her life. But what or how much she knew seemed unobtainable.

Giving up on the downstairs, he made his way up to the first floor.

'Arthur?'

'Here.' England's voice came from the first room that opened to the landing, Amélie's room. He was hunched on his knees on the floor with a phone connected to a charger in his hands. The phone was plugged into the wall but seemed to not be charging, England was twisting the cable this way and that, trying to find a connection. He gave a sigh before looking up at France. 'Find anything?'

France shook his head, gazing about the room. 'You?'

England waved the phone in his hand. 'Nothing other than this; it'll probably tell us who she was last talking to but I can't get it to charge. I don't have an Apple and you don't have a phone yet, we'll need to pick up a new cable tomorrow.'

Francis hummed in agreement. 'Sure. There's that motel we passed on the way here, shall we stay there?'

'Might as well.' England unplugged the phone, leaving the cable in the wall, and stood. 'Before we go...' England made his way over to a shelf in a few steps and pulled down a photograph in a frame. It showed Amélie and a smiling young man who France didn't recognise, clearly taken a few years ago, 'who's this?'

France looked a bit closer. 'Charles Lavoie,' the answer came to him quickly, the family tree sprouting in his mind at the sight of his face, 'her brother.'

England drew his mouth into a thin line.

'Someone interesting?'

'Potentially, he was a gardener at the home.'

'Someone worth a visit then.'

'I'd say so,' England replied, 'he may have been the one I kept catching out the corner of my eye, skulking about the bushes.' He put back the first photo, thought a moment, then reached up and pulled down another. 'Seeing as her brother works at the home...'

The second photo was Amélie, her brother and an older man who was quite obviously their father. France's eye's widened. 'Louis Durand, Julien Durand's son.'

England's face gave to reveal his surprise. 'Well, we have a definite family connection now then.' England clicked his tongue. 'I can't say I ever expected that.'

Suddenly, France clapped his hands together. 'Well, there's nothing more that we can do tonight, let's go out for dinner and then see if we can visit him tomorrow, he's currently in Luçon.'

England frowned. 'What? That surely can't be the most important thing on your mind. And what on earth is he doing there? That's surrounded by a national park a way away, isn't it? Shouldn't he live around here somewhere if he works at the home too?'

'Never mind that mon chou,' France grabbed the photograph out of England's hands and wiped off their fingerprints before reaching past the other nation to place it back on the shelf. He then planted his hands on England's shoulders and steered him out of the room and down the landing to the stairs. 'It is a bit concerning for sure, but if after all these days he's only gone that far after the break in at the home, we can assume he won't go much further.'

'But what if he was the one who shot Amélie?' England shrugged France off once he reached the stairs, all too happy to walk himself down.

'If he were, he would again be a lot further away.' France supplied. 'We can assume he knows something of course, considering the fact that he's distanced himself, but I don't think he's likely to run away.'

England frowned. 'We're leaving a lot to chance.'

'You're just going to have to trust me on this one.'

England quickly looked around the room to make sure they hadn't left anything behind and caught sight of Amélie, still splayed on the sofa. He sighed. 'Fine, we'll go tomorrow. Should we do anything about...'

He left the question hanging, not quite wanting to finish it. France considered it for a moment, looking over at her body and resting his eyes a moment on her face. 'No.' He said quietly, 'Let what was supposed to happen happen naturally. Maybe by the time she's found, all this will be over and we can cover our tracks. There's no use drawing even more attention to ourselves.'

England considered him a moment, watching his face for some other emotion, but France looked resigned and ambivalent to it all. What is one life to a nation?

Sadly, after all these years, still a lot.

* * *

They found a small rest stop which offered food after a quick drive, away from the centre of Fouras and potential arrest and public scandal. From there they made their way to the motel where, as per England's continuing bad luck, only a single room with a double bed was available on the ground floor.

Thanks to his many years of personal resistance training England did manage to withhold from causing a scene at the front desk by forcing them to drive somewhere else, and instead opted for a far more effective detachment approach, refusing to rise to the lewd looks and comments France kept shooting his way whenever another person came within earshot of them.

'Why do you insist in trying to make me angry?' He grumbled to him as they walked to their room.

France gave him a wink and bumped his hip with his own, eliciting a noise of surprise from England. 'Because it is a sport that I have missed far too much. You are so very easy.'

'I am not,' defended England crossly, red ears betraying a different answer. He stopped outside their room, adjusted the rucksack with his clothes in it on his back, and slipped the key card through the reader and let himself in. Flicking on a light switch he could see that the room, although small, wasn't terrible and the bed with its plump duvet looked oh so very enticing.

As he was debating the pros and cons of showering now or next morning when he woke up, France had swanned inside and dumped his own bag on the bed before making his way to the window and throwing it open to let in the cool night breeze, resting his elbows on the windowsill. 'Ah, what a lovely view of the carpark we have.'

England rolled his eyes and put his bag next to France's. 'Oh goody. I'm thrilled.'

France moved away from the window and plopped down onto an armchair which rested in the corner, by a small writing desk. 'Oh, you are so very negative. Anyone would think that you weren't enjoying yourself.'

England raised an eyebrow at him but once again refrained from commenting further. He reached into his pocket, then the next and then seemed to pat frantically in each one before raising his eyes. 'I can't find my phone.'

France looked at him in confusion, briefly thrown by the sudden change in conversation. 'What?'

'My phone.' England scrabbled about in his rucksack before dumping its contents on the bedspread. 'I can't find it; I don't think I've had it for a while either.'

France stared at him in horror. 'Are you serious.'

'Yes!' England furiously looked his way before continuing his search. 'I think I last remember having it on the train but after that I have no fucking idea. I know in the National Assembly I thought I'd left it in the lockers but when we got there I didn't see it and forgot about it.'

'Oh my God don't tell me that, stop talking.' France leant forwards to put his head in his hands and shook it in wonderment. 'You actually are the king of losing things.' He raised his head again to look in disbelief at England. 'The one phone we had that works, the one way of accessing the internet or anyone else that could be of any help and you _lose it_?!

'I didn't lose it I just put it down somewhere!'

'Christ!' France stood up angrily, hands briefly thrown in the air and span on the spot to rest a hand weakly on the wall as he looked in mute shock at England, who was now hurriedly checking through France's bag as well.

'If you shut up and help me look-'

'There's no point!' France ran a hand through his hair in aggravation. 'We both know you've put it somewhere and walked off without it and now it's long gone.'

'Don't get all pissy with me, just becau-'

There was a sudden noise as a car careered into the car park behind them. Before either of them could do little more than register the sound, there was the sharp crack of a gunshot from outside their window. On instinct long born from far too many wars France threw himself to the floor and ducked, covering his head with his hands and pushing his body as close to the floor as possible. At the same time tyres screeched against concrete outside and the smell of burning rubber wafted in on the breeze. France swore colourfully and jumped up onto his knees, peeking his head out of the open window and just catching sight of a 4 door blue car speeding out of the car park.

'What the hell was that about?!' He cried, turning around to look for England.

He found the other nation standing a few paces from where he'd last seen him, shakily picking at a recently formed hole in his chest.

'Well fuck.' He managed to say, before his face drained of all colour and he slumped to his knees heavily, leaning his side on the bed.

France scrabbled over to his side. 'Shit, shit, shit!' He none too gently forced England's jumper off and lifted up his shirt to look at the bullet wound. It had managed to catch him directly in the chest, near the heart, and was bleeding profusely. Caught unaware, England hadn't even had the chance to dodge- it was a direct hit. Sliding his fingers around England's back, France probed for an exit wound and to his dismay, found one. Meeting England's eyes and noting the look of shock in them that was probably reflected in his own, he grabbed at one of the random items of clothing on the bed and acquired an extra jumper, which he then pressed tightly to England's chest. He then pulled his shirt back down, zipped up his hoodie and instructed him to push on the injury as hard as he could.

Ignoring England's mumbled complaint that he knew full well what to do, he'd been shot before I'll have you know, France sprang to his feet and in a moment of quick thinking, grabbed a can of deodorant and sprayed it at the fire alarm. All too soon, the shrill, piercing sound of the alarm made itself known and France turned his attention into scooping all of their clothes haphazardly back into the bags, which he quickly threw onto his back and over his shoulder.

'Whadja do that for?' England managed to ask with increasing difficulty, watching France then pull off the duvet from the bed and try to stuff a pillow into his bag. He could feel the floor vibrating as feet trundled through the corridor outside their room.

'To get people to leave the building, we need a distraction.' France replied, pushing down the clothes in his bag to make more room for the pillow. 'We need to get out of here, now. The more people we can lose ourselves in the better.'

'Oh.' England replied stupidly, feeling the hand pressing on the lump of bloodied jumper on his chest start to shake. 'I'm going into shock, by the way.'

France hissed in frustration and threw off the rucksack, threading the duvet through the straps so that when he swung it on once more it stayed there, pinned to his back. 'We're leaving now, can you walk?'

England gave a dry laugh. 'Well, I can't fucking fly, can I.'

France bent to grab onto his elbow and pulled him up, too fast though for all at once England's vision became clouded in dark spots and what little blood he had left pounded in his ears. France steadied him but couldn't wait, pulling England spewing foul curses with him they stumbled into the corridor and made for a fire exit, pushing past people as they went.

Unlocking the car as they approached, France propped a very pale and pained looking England on the car and threw open the boot to throw their things inside, before making his way to the passenger door. After helping England quickly get inside, he slammed the door and dashed to the driver's side, jumping in and quickly starting the engine without bothering with seatbelts.

'Fuck!' France swore once they were back on the road, slamming a hand on the steering wheel with each swear. 'Fuck!' He stole a look at England, who was resting his head against the headrest and seemed to be trying to steady his breathing.

'Hey,' France turned back to the road but glanced back over and England to make sure he'd heard.

'Oi!' No answer. 'Arthur!' At England's lack of response France nudged him, finally earning him a noise of pain as his chest was jostled.

'Fuck off.' England managed to get out, forcing open one eye. His hand lay uselessly in his lap, having no strength remaining to push against the now soaking remains of what had once been Wales' favourite jumper against his chest.

'Stay awake, don't fall asleep.'

Breathing was difficult and required more muscles than it used to, England thought as he tried to keep his eyes open. Against his will, they started to slip shut becoming more heavy as his breathing became laboured, France's voice quiet and distant. Then, hot, white pain flared suddenly through his system and his eyes flew open, his mouth hung agape as he gave a noiseless scream, breath catching in his throat and sticking to his tongue.

'Stay awake!' France's voice was clear now and England focused on the pain and the fact that France had _thumped_ him on a gunshot wound; he was going to fucking kill him he knew how much this fucking hurt, dear God he was going to fucking kill him that ponsey _arsehole,_ what a fucking _dick._

'You're an absolute prick, you know that?' He managed to force out, tongue trying its best to form words. He felt terrible, he was now beginning to feel extremely cold and clammy and wished France had put the stolen duvet on him rather than throw it in the boot.

'Yes, yes, you can hit me later.' France glanced in his rear view mirror before doing a feverish double take which would have been comical had England not been dying. 'Goddamnit, we're being tailed.'

England groaned. 'Of course we are.'

'You need to stay awake, if you die now you'll be dead weight that I won't be able to carry if we need to run again.'

Run? England laughed to himself in disbelief, France was lucky he was even still conscious, a human would have given in long ago. 'Who's following us?'

'The same car that shot at us, it seems. Looks the same anyway.'

France turned the car sharply left, overtaking a bewildered looking old lady in a small old Toyota, and England allowed his head to loll with the movement, focusing on the sound of horns beeping and the pain that pulsed hotter in his chest with each violent movement of the car.

'You staying alive?'

'Doing my best.' England grunted. 'Where do you plan on taking us?'

'The national park near Luçon. I'm hoping to lose him in the dark once we get off the main roads.' France glanced in the mirrors again to check for their pursuers. The car wasn't right behind them but it was close and definitely following them, matching their every turn and lane change. France was pushing the car as much as he could without endangering any of the other drivers, changing lanes erratically to squeeze between vehicles and widen the distance.

'Why the fuck are they following us,' he muttered to himself, 'they've already shot at us and exposed themselves, why now follow us? What do they hope to do if they catch us?'

'Maybe they know,' England said, voice hoarse and so quiet that France had to strain to hear him over the noise of the car engine and the traffic around them, 'that we won't stay dead.'

The implications of what he'd said caused a breath to catch in France's throat as he realised immediately what England meant. 'They know what we are. They must know what the cases are for.'

England made a noise in answer and France swore again, slapping his hand uselessly against the steering wheel. 'This is too much Arthur, God knows how many people know! We walked right into a fucking trap.'

'They knew more... than we thought they did.' England agreed. His breathing had grown erratic and he gulped at the air as he struggled to get it into his lungs. 'But they can't have known... that we came back for the case. It's been missing for too long for- for them to make a connection.'

'Then they must have seen us go to Amélie's house. Maybe they guessed we'd try and get some information from her? Maybe they'd even seen us go into the Assembly which tipped them off we were looking for them.' France was rambling, brain whirring as he tried to find some some fact that was the connecting piece in the tangle of information from the day.

'We s-should have s-stayed in the hotel.' England wanted to stop his teeth from chattering, but forcing himself to stay alive when his body so desperately wanted to die was taking up too much of his focus.

'Yes well, I didn't know we would be chased if we tried to escape, now did I.' France replied irritably.

Despite himself England let out a small hiss of pain as the car jolted sharply once more. France appraised him properly, he didn't look like he'd last much longer. 'How long do you think you can stay alive for?'

England's jaw was clenched and every part of his expression looked as though it had clamped down, like he was using every possible muscle to focus on staying alive. 'Don't know,' he grit out eventually, 'keep talking to me.'

'I think you're stupid for getting yourself shot.' France offered instantly, a ghost of their usual exchanges, 'I think Wales should be thankful his jumper is finally being used for something more suited to its appearance.' He swerved, feinting taking an exit but at the last second pulled back on the road- it didn't work. 'I dread to think that if I die it'll be in your horrible clothes. I think that I must have been out of my senses when I agreed to your plans. And finally, I think we both need a long holiday after this.'

England chuckled before coughing wetly. 'We need to- to get out of France.'

'But we're right on the West coast.' France's voice went higher in panic and frustration, 'It's four and a half hours to Spain, seven and a half to Switzerland or six to Belgium- there's no way we can get back to England and if we're followed the whole way we won't make it to anywhere on the petrol we've got left.'

His mind worked furiously as England sat uselessly bleeding to death in the passenger's seat, desperately trying to think of a way out. He actually felt fear in his gut for the first time in a long, long while. Pure unfiltered terror coiled its way around his heart and he had to focus more and more on ignoring its presence, to think about anything other than what was happening to them and detach himself emotionally. He forced himself to listen to his body, to listen to years of life experience and turn on autopilot almost; body moving quicker and faster than his mind could keep track of as it worked on muscle memory born from over a thousand years of self preservation.

It wasn't dying that he was scared of, nations quickly became immune to such a regular annoyance wrought upon their physical bodies -keeping hold of such a primitive fear only held them back- but the fear of facing an enemy on such equal ground was an unwanted new experience. He had no previous fights to help them through this, there was no way of knowing how the enemy would act when they knew just what they were chasing. France felt the fear of being hunted, truly hunted like prey, for the first time in his long life. Witch hunts didn't count, invasions didn't count, revolutions and mobs weren't the same because people were chasing what they _thought_ he was, what they _thought_ he represented. They weren't chasing a witch back then, they weren't chasing a noble or a scholar or a heretic, they were unknowingly chasing the semi-immortal personification of France and this always gave him the upper hand. They didn't know he could be reborn, didn't know that he could knew their names and their histories and their hardships and understood their anger and hatred of him, unreasonable though it was. They didn't know he could just disappear and wait for the dust to clear before making a reappearance tens or hundreds of years later when it was safe, when everything was okay again.

But these people, the people in the car following them, the people who had shot England knew exactly what they were hunting. They had shot England because he was _England_ , and they were chasing them down the motorway because they were nations.

And that was _terrifying_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Quite a quick update from me this time, hopefully I do can that again for the next chapter. This chapter was very fun to write, I actually managed to pound out most of it in a day once it started to pick up the pace and it was a nice change to the relatively relaxed tone that's been the bulk of the story so far. If you've been with me from chapter one, I hope this was worth the weight of what the summary promised!
> 
> A few things before I fly off into the void again:
> 
> (1) According to the internet, Meriden is the centre of England. I have a long held headcannon that each nation likes to spend most of their time, when not working in their capital, as much in the middle of all of their people as they can get. I imagine that if anywhere, this is where England would plop his big fancy manor house that he likes to stay in when parliament isn't in session.
> 
> (2) A bit of time after the Normal invasion, the French used by the upper classes and the royalty (who used French as a mother tongue well into the middle ages) in England started taking on its own dialectual features, very different from those of the standard Parisian of the time. It also apparently had a very Anglicised accent and was mocked by the French nobility and thus helped lead to the increasing use of English (Middle English by this point) up the class structure as people started to feel more 'English' than French, even though there were indeed a good number of French families in England who continued to hold land in both countries since the invasion in 1066. It's my own personal headcannon that if he ever is forced into a situation where he has to speak French around France, England would speak standard French but with an accent from modern day Normandy as a slight dig against Francis. He is perfectly capable of speaking perfect standard French though, he just finds it amusing not to.
> 
> (3) This fic was actually supposed to take a very different direction, so I named human Francis 'Francis' so readers would know who he was. Now that we've ended up where we are, I regret ever doing so as writing about them both in even the same paragraph I always have to make sure I make a distinction and the writing feels clunkier than it would without this problem. So, sorry for that!
> 
> Well, that's all from me! As always, I hope you've enjoyed the latest chapter. Please do drop me a comment or a review, they really do warm my cold dead heart.


	8. Watching from the Woods

Watching from the Woods

 

It was long past dark when France finally killed the engine.

 After many hours of driving and near misses, he'd finally lost the car that was tailing them by pure accident and luck- some rowdy teenagers and good timing on a swerve on a roundabout was all that he needed.

 Having no other place to go to, he had driven them to the forest by Luçon; bypassing the main entrances and the town itself he managed to drive them away from the main road and into a thicker part of the trees. He didn't really have anywhere to aim for, but allowed himself to listen to the senses which orientated him and allowed him the sense of his land and let centuries of survival skills take over. Aim for water. Get away from people. Plan the next move.

With England about to die there wasn't much they could do other than stop, and now that they were being chased by someone who probably knew far too much they couldn't stop anywhere obvious. If someone was willing to shoot at them through a hotel window during daylight there was no telling what else these people were willing to do.

Their escape was starting to catch up to him. The adrenaline had worn off long ago and he'd been running on the last of his energy reserves for longer than he'd care to think about. Raising shaking hands to run through his hair, France leant back in his seat, head tipped on the headrest and allowed himself a deep sigh through his nose before turning to look at England. Somehow, he was still alive; hardly there and probably not conscious he was slumped in the passenger seat unmoving and complexion ashen. His breathing was very shallow and he looked dead already but he was still alive, probably just from sheer stubbornness. He reached over and with his right hand brushed England's sweaty hair back from his forehead. His skin was morgue cold; bloodless.

 'We're safe. You can go now, my dear.'

 A small, barely audible, sigh was his only response as England breathed out one last time and his chest fell still.

 France watched him for a while, face inscrutable, before climbing out of the car to inspect his surroundings. He'd driven them deep into the forest, following a dirt track that was only accessible to cars during the height of summer, towards where he felt a stream nearby. The water itself was still a way away and so from here they'd have to go on foot. Or, rather France would go on foot, England was most certainly being dragged.

 Confident enough in their remote location that leaving the car wouldn't be an issue, France collected all of their things that he'd managed to take with them from the hotel, laid them by a nearby tree and then tugged a very cumbersome and _heavy_ England out of the car and onto the grass.

 'You need to be careful when you next insult America about his weight,' he said, hefting England awkwardly upright with his arms snaked under the Englishman's armpits and crossed over his chest, cringing when his skin made contact with the blood from the bullet wound, 'I now have very recent and first-hand knowledge that you're not all that dainty yourself.'

 France dropped him none too gently by the bags and stripped him of most of his clothes, throwing the ruined remains of what had once been a Welshman's comfortable jumper into a bush and trying his very best to squash England's shoes into one of their bags. No sense in anything getting dirtier than could be helped, they certainly weren't going to be around a washing machine anytime soon, and he highly doubted that England would be happy with a pile of mud in his shoes. France was all too aware of the phases of death and it was a none-too-clean process, all muscles tended to relax most inconveniently and it was a testimony to their current relationship that France had the heart to strip him before the inevitable mess. Any other era and he'd have left him to fester in his own filth.

 Any other era and he probably wouldn't even be a part of this in the first place.

 He sighed. He knew that that wasn't true; despite their wars and arguments the cases and their resets were always a separate thing, a very personal and intimate stability in their otherwise tumultuous relationship.

 After loading himself up with the bags, England's jeans tied around the straps and the stolen duvet still wedged underneath them, France began the journey to the stream which now seemed almost too far away to bother with, the dead-weight of his fellow nation making his arms grown weary and start to cramp in their awkward position. Although he _knew_ where the body of water was, he couldn't _see_ it- walking backwards meant that he often walked into branches and stumbled on wayward roots whereas England unfortunately got snagged on things quite a bit. By the time he got them there France was more than ready to leave England to his fate as he himself recovered on a comfortable looking pile of dead leaves.

 England was unceremoniously dumped by the water's edge and left to the whims of his body clock whilst France backtracked a little bit to a sheltering (ish) tree where he placed their belongings. It would be a while before he'd see England again, despite the other nation being strong and healthy a hole going from his chest through to his back would take a bit of time to fix.  
  
By his best guess, France had a good ten or so hours at the very least before England would gasp his way to consciousness again and he was determined to make the most of them. At least his injury, whilst serious enough to kill him, was only one entry and exit wound, there wasn't anything else that needed fixing and England as a nation was very much unharmed, so he would be able to heal his body quick enough for his death to not cause them a major problem or setback.

 It was very late now, well into the early morning, and his tiredness was starting to weigh on him. France hoped that it would help him sleep at least a little that night. Years of soft beds and warm houses had, he was quite happy to admit, softened him considerably and the idea of a cold damp ground in a forest no longer served as his idea of a good sleeping place. He allowed himself a moment to lament his abysmal luck and then set about making a fire before settling himself against the tree, stolen duvet wrapped about his shoulders. He was lucky it was still summer.

 

* * *

 

A good many hours later, France was jerked awake by the sound of loud swearing and splashing. After about 10 minutes of this happening in intermittent bursts, heavy footfalls announcing the presence of England crashing his way through the bracken towards him. He stumbled into France's little clearing and found him hunched against the tree immediately, eyes locking onto him and narrowing in loathing.

 'Y-you could've left me s-s-some fuckin' clothes you ba-ba-stard.'

 He was damp, presumably from giving himself a probably painfully frigid wash down in the river France had so thoughtfully placed him next to; regardless of their current positive relationship France did not wish to stand vigil over England's corpse and wash him clean no more than he wanted to sleep on the hard ground in a forest, but at least by trying to sleep he had the chance to gain some benefit.

 England's hands and feet were tinged a dark blue, as were his lips, but he was clean, the blood from his chest had been washed away to reveal shiny pink skin stretched over the recently closed bullet wound.

 France peered at him over the edges of the duvet, eyes betraying his amusement. 'They would have been horribly damp by now; you should be thanking me.'

 England looked as though he would rather do many things other than thank him, but instead concentrated on trying to find his clothes with the violent shaking of his body. Waking up from death, although it was never permanent and never for too long, was never something any one of their kind enjoyed. At best it was sporadic, the heart would sputter erratically before finding a rhythm and blood would shoot throughout the body, pushing open collapsed arteries and cold organs in an attempt to heat up something cold to a nice and functional 37C. In other, far less pleasant occasions, like right now, when the body was left in not so ideal conditions, this bumpy process to be anything close to smooth; England had been left outside over night and then he had willingly dumped himself into a frigid river, and so his body was angrily trying to heat itself up as quickly as possible, bypassing other important functions and body parts and using all the tricks it knew in order to bring his core temperature up quickly.

 After watching the English idiot make a fool of himself and fail to accomplish anything other than knocking things over, France begrudgingly felt himself pity him and stood up from his cocoon, regretting it instantly as the cool air hit him and made the crick in his neck reveal itself painfully. Leaving the duvet crumpled by the foot of the tree France allowed himself a much needed stretch, rolling his shoulders back gently and pushing out his chest to pop his spine and giving a small noise of happiness at the feeling. England had watched him rise and was looking his way witheringly, silently ordering him to _hurry_ _up_.

 France somehow still looked as though his appearance was carefully planned, sleeping outside and curled upright against a tree had rumpled his clothes and dirtied them along with his hands and feet, but he still looked as though he'd intended that to happen. His hair was ruffled in an easy, lazy way and he only looked marginally tired, even if his face did need washing. England, meanwhile, felt quite as he looked: like he'd gone off on a weekend long pub crawl and then slept in a hedge.

 France made his way over to the other nation, brushing him aside as he passed and easily rooted through England's bag, picking out a set of clothes at random. He pushed them into England's arms and then left him to it, disappearing off to the stream England had just come from to presumably freshen himself up as much as was possible with river water.

 Clumsily, England made his way to a nearby bush and placed most of the clothing on the top most foliage for now to allow him better use of his hands; his motor skills hadn't returned enough yet to allow him to juggle putting clothes on whilst simultaneously holding the rest and remaining upright and he didn't really have the patience to try. His numb hands and fingers really weren't helping him either, he managed to put his underwear on and the pair of jeans without toppling over but had only just slipped one of his arms into his shirt by the time France came back, looking significantly more alert.

 Tutting at him, France quickly stepped over and effortlessly coerced his other stiff arm into its sleeve and buttoned up his shirt, making quick work of what would probably have taken England another five minutes. Then, leaving his socks, shoes and jacket by the bush, France grabbed his wrist and lead England back to the tree he'd slept under, pulling the duvet around his own shoulders before he sat down, taking England with him.

He pulled his knees up either side of England, flinching at the cold clamminess of the other man whilst prodding him to pull his own knees to his chest, and pulled the duvet up, over and around their shoulders. After tugging it in place so that both of them were covered, he gave the edges to England, who, with his back flush against France's chest, immediately crossed his arms with them to cover his chest and lock the warmth in around them both.

 With the two of them under the duvet and sharing body heat it was a lot warmer than it had been that night. It hadn't been a _cold_ night, but it was still cold and if France hadn't been as tired as he had been then he doubted that he would have been able to sleep at all.

 'How's your chest?' He asked, nudging England's head with his chin so that he would move it to rest a bit better against his collar-bone.

'Hurts.' England managed to grunt out, cold cheek pressed on France's chest.

 Ideally, he should now be resting up in bed rather than roughing it out in a forest, and so when France started rubbing his hands up and down England's arms to help warm him and stop his shivering he didn't shrug him off, not only because it was helping to warm him faster but because in truth he was feeling just a bit sorry for himself.

 'It could have been worse.' France said cheerily.

 'Says the one who wasn't sh-shot.'

 'Says the one who was still able to get you here in once piece, rather than in a sack.' France countered easily. He stopped rubbing to bring his hand up out of the warm to push England's fringe back and cup against his forehead, feeling for and finding the beginnings of a fever. He was warming, at least.

England pushed his head back, away from France's hand but deeper down into the covers. 'I'm warm inside now', he managed to mumble, 'jus' cold outside.'

 France hmm'd in reply and went back to working some heat into England's arms, sides and chest, careful not to brush over the area near his heart with too much force.

 'Do you remember it all?'

 England didn't reply verbally at first but nodded stiffly once against France's chest, then elaborated further when it became apparent that the other nation was waiting for an answer.

 'We were shot at in the hotel, 'n' I got caught in the chest. We got in the car and you tried to drive us away, but we were chased.'

 France noted that England said that _they'd_ been shot at, which was interesting. Did he not considered himself to be the main target?

 'Did someone try to shoot at me as well?'

 England frowned in concentration. 'There was two of 'em. Two windows down, but only one shot.'

 Hmm, interesting. Maybe they hadn't been aiming for England himself after all, maybe just at the two of them in general.

 'Where are we now?'

 'The national park, near Luçon,' answered France. 'And I've been thinking, we may as well visit Amélie's brother, Charles Lavoie whilst we're here.'

 England tensed and tried to twist his head to look him in the eye. 'I thought- weren't we trying to get away from this?'

 'We should,' France agreed, 'but do you have any better ideas?'

 England thought for a moment. 'If we try and go anywhere, we have the chance of being found again so that's a risk regardless of what we do. With that in mind we should try to get to your government; it's pretty apparent we're in over our heads here.'

 'Oh? What happened to _that_ being a bad idea?'

 England scowled but was too tired to give him more than a 'shut it' as an argument.

 France grinned but decided for his own safety that it probably wasn't worth continuing. 'I agree. Without phones or any other means of communication we're too cut off, but I am hesitant in returning straight to the government. After all, we don't know when or _where_ it was that we picked up the tail.' It could have been the government, Amélie's house, or even from when they'd got on the Eurostar- the fact that they didn't know anything about who had attacked them made France uneasy.

 'Might as well try and see Charles then first.' England shut his eyes. 'What a fuck up.'

 'I can't think of any easy solution out of this either.' France had been thinking on this particular problem for a while and no answer he came up with seemed very good. 'As it is, we're either caught or somehow manage to get to Belgium or cross The Channel, but if we lose them now then it's unlikely they're willing to stick around after they've already tried and failed to kill us.'

 England tutted. 'Especially if they know what we are, they surely must then _know_ that there'll be far greater repercussions if they're caught than if we were we merely human.'

 'What worries me the most,' France ghosted his hand above the new, tender skin on England's chest, 'is that they attacked us potentially fully aware of that. These are obviously not people to underestimate. If we do escape unharmed then the problem persists and could spiral into something worse involving other people- other nations, potentially. We can't risk the possibility that they know everything about us, down to what we are and how we operate and they may know that.'

 'Maybe. But, whilst they may know what we are, they don't know us personally.'

 'You're saying we should go after them directly?'

 'No...' England mulled over his words before he elaborated, 'but I don't think we should go on the complete defensive. They know we're after information, so we should try to get it before they make it more difficult to obtain. The fact of the matter is, we don't know what they know. Nothing that's happened so far could be linked.'

 'Or, it all could.' France shifted against the tree and adjusted his legs into a more comfortable position. 'There is too much that is linked for this to be a coincidence.'

 'Either way, I still think that going to the government is our best course of action after all that's happened, but we should try to find out as much as possible and narrow down as many variables as we can before we do.'

 'I agree.' France felt England relax more against him. 'What about your brothers?' Being part of a union meant that although they wouldn't know why, the other members of the UK would at least know that some sort of grave misfortune had befallen one of them, there was then a chance to getting some outside help.

 England however, understood what France was implying and shook his head. 'They probably know something happened but there's not much they can do. 'S far as I know Scotland's in talks with the UN somewhere, North may be somewhere with Ireland or at home and Wales is probably sitting feeling smug but without a phone...' England trailed off. 'Well, they can't exactly give us a ring and find out what happened, can they.'

 'But they know _something_ has happened.'

 England shrugged. 'If that's how you want to look at it.'

 They stayed quiet after that and remained pressed together tightly until England had stopped shaking and could once more feel his hands and feet.

 'I was supposed to have reset.' He said, voice distant and quiet, as if he were speaking more to himself than to anyone in particular.

 France was almost about to fall back asleep again, but was instantly awake. 'What?'

 'I'm due one, it seems.'

 France racked his brain, struggling to try and think of the last time England had had his stint at being human. 1800s? No wait, before that... it couldn't have been anywhere around the 1600s, he'd been too busy starting to pillage and conquer to allow himself to enjoy a mortal existence. Late in the 1700s then, perhaps?

 'We're all probably due one,' England continued, 'so much has changed even in the last hundred years that we're all a bit out of touch- Francis' lifespan being one example.'

 'How could you tell that you...' France floundered. 'why do you think that?'

 France felt England give a small shrug. 'I know it was time; it was very hard to _stay,_ I guess. You're dead but still _there,_ but this time I had to actually think about staying.' He ran out of words, language not really enough to describe what he intrinsically knew. 'I knew it wouldn't be a good idea though, not right now.'

 France huffed. 'Well no. I, for one, would have to deal with your government and also reintroducing myself to mine, whilst at the same time being embroiled in a murder inquiry.'

 'Don't forget that someone is still trying to kill you.'

 'Oh yes, that too. How could I have let that slip my mind.'

 England chuckled and then coughed, lungs not quite ready.

 France helped him sit up a bit higher and rubbed his back. 'This isn't something we need right now. One more hit on you and it'll be even harder to fix this mess if you actually stay dead.'

England continued to cough and try to wrangle his breathing back under control, but shook his head.

 France tutted in annoyance. 'I doubt that you'll be able to put it off for long, it's not something that you can simply avoid.' He sighed and leant back against the tree. The gap between them had filled very quickly with cold air, and once he stopped struggling to breathe France pulled England back down again and covered them both back up. 'This is going to make things a whole lot more difficult, you know.'

 'Dreadfully sorry.' England did not sound in any way sorry. 'Next time I'll just die better, shall I?'

 France gave him a smiling kiss to the temple. 'You could always learn to die better, you are never very pretty when you do so.'

 England elbowed him in the gut and leant hard against him on purpose. 'I cannot wait to not have to see your face again after this.'

 France huffed at him. 'You would miss my shining example of poise, culture and beauty before too long.'

 'Would not.'

 'Oh! Think of how boring your life would be without me to enhance it, for example, consider that nice long holiday we'll go on after all of this blows over. Southern France, by the beach and in the sun...'

 'You can sod off, I'm going home.'

 'Back to your rainy lump in the sea, of course my dear. I shall not join you.'

 'Thank fuck for that.'

 As much as England didn't want to, he knew they needed to get moving and so after a few more minutes of, dare he say it, companionable silence and allowing himself to become warm with France as a personal body heater, he forced himself upright to go off in search of his socks and a jacket.

 France made a noise of unhappiness at the loss of warmth but stood too. There was no point in keeping the duvet now, so he left it on the ground; hopefully they'd be able to either find somewhere warm and inside to sleep that night or they'd be in the car. He felt uncomfortable leaving litter behind in his woods, but he'd done worse in the past.

 He managed to pack up quickly and by the time he was done England was fully dressed, bag slung over one shoulder and waiting for him impatiently, looking healthy once more apart from a slight flush to his cheeks. Before too long England was throwing their bags in the boot of the car and France was turning up the heating as far as it would go, until England started to complain about him wasting petrol.

 After a quick fight over who would be paying the cleaning bill on the rental -England had left a sizeable blood stain in the passenger seat- they were trundling through the woods.

 

* * *

 Wales was watching a late night omnibus of Emmerdale (1) in London when he felt England die. It was hard to describe exactly what it felt like, but Wales liked to imagine that it was something akin to suddenly realising that your watch strap had broken and was no longer on your wrist, or the sudden panic that your phone was no longer in your pocket. That feeling of realisation, of _oh shit,_ that happens just as your mind connects the lack of physical feeling with the sudden, intense quick burn of panic would probably be the most accurate, Wales thought. He unquestioningly knew that first of all, one of his brothers had died, and secondly, that this time it was England.

 He sat in his chair and frowned at England's TV, trying to will away the concern that had inevitably started to bubble in his stomach. That _idiot_. He told that English prick to stay here, hadn't he, that it was stupid to go back to France but _no_ , he had to go himself like the control freak that he was. He couldn't just _wait,_ he had to do things _now,_ regardless of anything or anyone else like the stubborn twat he was. Well, Wales was fed up with it all. Fine, whatever, it wasn't his problem.

 He concentrated on the TV and, to be extra spiteful, put his feet on his brother's coffee table. He was borrowing the flat still, Scotland had left for the UN meeting in Mexico a few days ago and had taken Northern Ireland with him, leaving Wales to oversee proceedings in London. He tried not to feel bitter about being left behind, Scotland was a far better diplomat that he was after all, and Wales didn't even really like travelling, but still. It would have been nice to have been _considered._

 Wales had just got back into the programme and was considering finally going to bed when Scotland rang. Looking at it in trepidation of more bad news, Wales paused the TV and picked up.

 'Hello?'

 'Do you need any paperwork sent over or do you know where it all is?'

 Wales blinked stupidly before it clicked what Scotland was referring to. So much for a, hello Wales, how are you? Sorry for calling you so late, I hope you weren't sleeping. Arsehole. 'I know where it all is, thank you.' He said instead, curtly.

 'Just asking, no need to get pissy.'

 'I am not pissy,' Wales retorted hotly, 'but you do know what the time is here, don't you?'

 'Ah fuck off, I knew you'd be awake, that Emmerdale thing is on.'

 Wales felt his cheeks heat up. 'That doesn't mean anything.'

 He heard Scotland give a bark of laughter. 'Like hell it doesn't!'

 Ignoring both the sound of Northern Ireland saying rude things about him in the background and Scotland's comment, Wales said, 'I will get what I need from the office tomorrow, there's not much I can do tonight.'

 'Yeah alright, but might be worth cracking on with it now before the medical teams get involved, don't you think? What happened anyway?'

 Scowling, Wales said angrily, 'I am fully capable of taking care of this myself, thank you very much, I don't need your input.'

 'Fine, I'll leave you to it then.' Scotland paused. 'You alright?'

 'What?' Wales was thrown off slightly by the question. 'Why wouldn't I be?'

 'Shit, I dunno,' Scotland sounded very awkward and Wales could imagine him cracking the knuckles on one hand like he always did when he was thinking too hard about what to say, 'you just don't sound... concerned, I suppose.'

 'There's nothing to be concerned about.' He said defensively. 'Must I always worry myself stupid when one of you does something idiotic? Since when did I become the bloody nursery maid?'

 'Aye, alright, calm down.' Scotland said placatingly, 'No need to get your knickers in a twist. Speak to you soon.'

 Wales just heard the faint 'Enjoy the omnibus!' from Northern Ireland before he cut the call and dropped the phone on the sofa in irritation. He stared at it angrily before realising that he hadn't told Scotland that England wasn't actually in the UK anymore. Ah well, if England ended up in a morgue in France there wasn't the need for Wales to intervene to stop a death record being created if they didn't know who he was, after all. England had left all but one of his credit cards behind and presumably wasn't wandering about with his passport. Feeling a little bit better, Wales turned his attention back to the TV and hit play. One more episode couldn't hurt.

 

* * *

 Charles Lavoie lived in what France explained to be the old Durand family home. It was large and situated in a quiet area and detached from its neighbouring houses by a reasonable sized garden. France parked a few houses away. He'd first driven past once to make sure there weren't already visitors and once satisfied they were alone he'd settled them on a side street and killed the engine. There, he could watch both the road to Charles' house and the way which led to the forest.

 'We there?' Blearily, England sat up straight from where he'd been sleeping, sprawled across the back seats.

 'Yes but shh, don't move for a while.'

 'Why do I need to-'

 'Shh!'

 'Oh, fuck off.' He gave France the two fingered salute and slumped back down again, shutting his eyes.

 France had tensed at a car which had appeared from the the road in front of the house and stared hard at it, trying to memorise as many details as he could just in case they were needed.

 Still laying down but with eyes now wide open, England asked quietly, 'What can you see?'

 France didn't move. 'Just a car, but I'm waiting to see if it comes back again. It came from near the house.'

 After a few minutes, a soft and murmured, 'Fuck.'

 'It's back?'

 'Yes,' France muttered, 'back towards the house.'

 'Same car as yesterday?'

 'No.' France clucked his tongue in irritation. 'If it is the same people I'm sure that they wouldn't be that obvious.'

 A few more moments passed in silence. England stared at the sunroof and listened to the sound of France's controlled breathing through his nose. He was left waiting for over half an hour before France was satisfied that the car wasn't coming back, but despite this assurance they still made their way to the house without speaking, both on the lookout for something suspicious or hostile.

 They did not stop, but walked confidently. Throughout their lives, they had both had the need to evade capture or infiltrate somewhere enough times to know that the best way to avoid detection was to act as if what you were doing was completely normal. Trying to be overtly careful or cautious would give them away more so than if they waltzed up and banged on the door. However, if this place was under watch then it was being watched for them; regardless of their acting skills if they were seen by those who knew what they were looking for there then they were walking into very real danger.

 England was not scared of death. He had died too many times in too many ways for him to harbour any trace of the primal terror surrounding his own mortality that humans have. Still, he did not _like_ dying. Dying still hurt just the same as if it were to happen to a human, he felt it no less and tried to avoid it as much as a mortal man would, though perhaps for different reasons. Death was not an end for their kind, death was a mere painful inconvenience which meant that England was out of action and more vulnerable on the world stage for however long it took him to revive again. Jobs could not get done, political decisions could be passed without his consent, his affairs could be sorted and decided without his knowledge or against his wishes and these were sometimes things he could not fix. In peacetime death was irksome, in wartime death could be disastrous. But this was the first time that he could remember where he was actively conscious of wanting to stay alive for no other reason than he didn't want to die.

 He was not immortal by any means, the ancients like his own mother, Rome or Egypt were a testimony to the nations' version of true death, but today he was aware of how close he was to a reset. This added an odd layer of humanity that he hadn't experienced before. He knew full well that if he were killed now England the nation would not die. The body housing the spirit of the English nation and his own consciousness would momentarily cease to be, but England itself would construct a new body in due time and Arthur the person would once again be aware and alive and healthy. But now he felt more semi mortal, more human, more close to that strange line between life and death, than he ever had before.

 If he were to die now, he would reset. If he reset now, at a time when a part of England's consciousness was collected and bound up by a few priceless artefacts and in the hands of a knowledgeable, informed human enemy, it could affect more than just Arthur the man, it could affect England the nation and that made dying _dangerous_. Knowledge was always power and the knowledge of nations was a powerful piece of information indeed; England felt uncomfortable that a human, not even one of his own choosing, was made, in a way, equal to him by knowing what they knew.

 He was trying his best not to think about this, and how exposed it made him feel, when they finally climbed the steps to the house and France rapped smartly on the door. As seemed to be their luck, there was no answer.

 France rapped again, then rang the doorbell on the side of the door, before tutting angrily. England hovered on the step behind him, covertly looking from out of the corner of his eye at the garden surrounding them and shuffling his bag to sit better on his shoulder. They'd taken their bags with them this time, a precaution for if they needed to run again.

 'Windows are all shut up from what I can see of the front, but there's a car in the driveway.'

 France glanced back around at him before fixing his attention once again to the door, grabbing the handle and trying to twist it. 'Locked...search for a key?'

 It wasn't until England was looking under the hedge alongside the steps that he belated realised that he normally would have argued with being ordered about, especially by France of all people. France himself did seem slightly perturbed by England's out of character behaviour, throwing him a small look with a raised eyebrow, watching him shuffle about a bit before going down on one knee to check the other side.

 'So much for being inconspicuous.' England quipped after some time.

 'Nonsense.' France said, although he did stand back up again, brushing the dirt off from his jeans. 'If I hadn't have joined you anyone watching could have easily assumed that a grubby troll was crawling about in the bushes.'

 England scoffed but didn't offer anything else. Suddenly, he sat back on his hunches. 'Wait, do you smell that?'

 'Smell what?'

 England didn't say anything, but looked steadily at a vent about a foot above ground level.

 Slowly, France turned his attention back to the door and to the letter slit halfway down. He got back on the top step, then reached out and lifted the flap, leaning in close.

 This turned out to be a big mistake. Immediately, putrid air assaulted his nose and before he could stop himself he gagged on reflex, throwing a hand across his mouth and nose to stop himself from vomiting. It was so strong that England caught a whiff of it and looked horrified at France, eyes wide and mouth agape. 'How the fuck did we not notice that?!'

 France said nothing, still doing his very best to not be violently ill in someone's shrubbery, but shook his head furiously, eyes screwed up tight and watering. The sweet, sickly smell of death was one they knew all too well, and whoever was inside had certainly been dead for quite some time.

 While France was still collecting himself, England continued to search and finally got lucky, finding a large rock under the hedge by the wall of the house that covered a spare key. Bracing himself, he stood, walked up to the door, and took a deep breath in before slipping the key into the lock and swinging the door open.

 France had luckily been watching, and so had the time and foresight to take in a breath of his own and pull the neckline of his shirt over his nose. He watched as England baulked when the full force of the smell inside hit him but he pushed himself in the house without waiting for France to catch up.

 Hand clamped over nose, England tried his best to keep walking and, despite what he really wanted, to keep breathing normally. The quicker he adjusted to the smell, the easier this would be. Just as with Amélie's house, all the curtains were drawn and the house was dark and quiet, air still and heavy with a deathly silence. As he proceeded further into the house, through a hallway and into a sitting room, he heard the front door shut and France coming up from behind, and stopped to check that he was alone.

He was. The other nation still had the collar of his borrowed shirt around his nose and England rolled his eyes at him before removing his own hand from his face and taking an experimental breath in. After swallowing deeply and forcing himself to keep breathing, he was okay enough to continue without.

 Amélie's brother was quite obviously dead. He too was sat on his sofa, like his sister had been, though his placement looked more unnatural and forced. A big man anyway, with wide shoulders and a stocky body, he was now bloated and misshapen with marbled skin, indicating to both nations how long since he'd died. There was a gunshot wound to his chest, a direct hit upon his heart, and when he saw this England grimaced and gave his head a small shake. Out of the corner of his eye he saw France step into the room, giving himself a fair bit of distance from the body and look his way questioningly.

 'It's the bloke I shot, at the home.' England explained. 'The one I caught trying to kill Francis. He wore a mask then, but the clothes and build are the same, as is where I shot him.'

 France glanced at the man on the sofa and frowned, blue eyes hardening.

 'And now I'm sure he's the one I kept catching watching him, during that last week or so.'

 'Someone broke into his room too, through the window.' France's voice was muffled and he reluctantly exposed his face to talk clearer. 'Only someone with a key could have had access; now we know who.'

 England pulled his lips into a thin line. 'Assuming Amélie and Charles worked together, they must not have trusted me, to have started to act so blatantly after I left.'

 'Amélie acted no different.' France brushed some hair behind his ear and let out a sigh. 'Unless there was someone else. He must have known _something_ about you to act so obviously once you were no longer there to stop him.'

Well, this was just getting better and better. There must have been a major leak of information at some point. The biggest worry for them currently was _when_. 

England reluctantly voiced this concern and France shook his head in frustration. 'Maybe from when I was shot 89 years ago, or when you started working at the home; either way people knew far more than they should have.'

 France kindly didn't state outright that he was to blame for this whole situation, and for that England was grateful. Although there was nothing he knew of that he had done to arouse suspicion working at the home, he knew that there must have been something that had given him away. This, in part at least, must be his fault. The attacks on Francis happened properly once England had left; they'd known he was a threat.

 'We can't assume anything other than what we can prove.' England avoided France's eyes on him and glanced at the body on the sofa. 'What we do know: I shot him dead.' England lifted his hand to gesture at the bullet hole which had torn through the man's thick clothing, letting his hand fall back weakly afterwards. 'Seeing as he did not walk here, someone picked him up and brought him.'

 France walked over to stand beside him. There were no other visible wounds of Charles Lavoie's body; England's shot was all that was needed to kill him. 'He looks as though he's been dead for that whole time frame, certainly. Unless, of course, you aren't as good a shot as that.'

 England elbowed him hard in the side and continued on as if there hadn't been an interruption. 'We also know that Amélie would not have been able to carry him here on her own, especially not if it was only the two of them involved; the few other carers there would have intervened.'

 'Unless they were also involved.'

 'Unless they were also involved.' England conceded. 'So, what we can ascertain is that she had help from the entire shift there that night, or that there is a third member. Lastly, he was driven from the home and then placed here.' England turned to France. 'The body wasn't hidden away or dumped, Francis. It was placed. And I can think of only one reason why one wouldn't immediately dispose of a corpse.'

 France looked away from the rotting body to England and underneath his calm exterior, England could see that he was worried. 'They want him to be found.'

 England felt for a moment as if time had stood still, his ears straining to hear any unaccounted for noise and body held taut, ready to attack or run. 'We need to get out of here, now.' His voice was quiet, but the adrenaline now pumping through his veins gave his words a steely edge.

 France swallowed and gave a curt nod before switching to Latin. ' _We're probably being monitored._ '

 England felt like kicking himself. ' _We didn't even check when we came in, the whole place could be bugged.'_ He answered in Cornish and was rewarded with the small pleasure of France twisting his mouth and frowning as his brain jumped languages. (2)

 ' _Then, I think we should take a little turn in the garden. The back to the woods and wait.'_ Breton from France now, soft and silky.

 England nodded and indicated that France should go first, he would follow. France didn't give any response, he turned and casually walked through the sitting room and to the kitchen where he probably found a back door, the soft clicks of one being opened and closed filtered back to England in the muffled silence. He scanned the room quickly, just to see if there was anything there that could be of any use of help to them. He would've liked to have searched the house, but he consoled himself with the the fact that the most important answer had been found. This whole situation was connected to the family of Durand, no doubts now. Seeing Charles again also helped clear up the questions of who'd been watching Francis at the home and how they'd managed to gain access to the buildings, but rather than answer anything more, coming here had just given them more questions that they had no way of solving.

 All of a sudden, his eyes landed on a plug socket by the armchair in the corner of the room; a phone charger and cable were sitting above on a small side table. No phone, that could be on the body and England didn't have time to check. Inwardly crossing his fingers that it was an Apple one, England strode over and grabbed the charger before whirling around and making his way out of the room, after France, and not sparing Charles Lavoie a backwards glance.

As he flung open the back door leading to the garden, he heard the soft sound of another door, behind him and further inside the house, clicking shut.

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wales, you shitbag.
> 
> Boy, I'm churning out these updates faster than I ever have done before, what nonsense is this?! As always, thanks very much to all of my readers, this is quite a bit to get through! A big thank you to all who favourited and or followed, and an even bigger thank you to those who left me such lovely comments.
> 
> I see Wales as usually the least likely to get offended and the least likely to lose his temper, but probably the most likely to hold a grudge or stay angry for the longest out of all of them. Scotland and England are the family hot heads who are quick to get angry, especially at each other, but burn out rather quickly, whereas North just wants to pretend he isn't related to any of them.
> 
> After some critique, I have rewritten chapter one as honestly it was pulling this down a bit, I'm happy to say I've improved a lot since then, and I'm going to be going through the other chapters to tweak certain facts and make things a lot clearer. Any critique or questions, please don't be afraid to say so!
> 
> I look forward to seeing to all again soon; thanks again for reading!
> 
> (1) Emmerdale is a British soap opera that's apparently quite good, but not as popular as its fellow and more well known soaps like Coronation Street or Eastenders. It's got more of an older crowd fan base and I see Wales as this very mellow and soft old man wrapped up in a young person's body.
> 
> (2) Personal headcanon that England really does not like speaking Latin or French, if he can help it. Linguistic lesson time! After having English squashed down and looked upon as a lesser language for centuries, by main European powers (Mainly France and England's own nobility) English was seen as the language of the common man, uneducated and unrefined and not worthy with its harsh sounding, short words. French was the model language in Europe for hundreds of years, especially around the Renaissance period and long before that, with it's long words and Latin based grammar. Lots of quirks in English grammar and English spelling today can be blamed for this, even up until the Victorian times where they tried to stretch and fit English to a more French or Latin language grammar, like not using a double negative (which was/ is acceptable in most English dialects and many other languages) and splitting the infinitive (not possible in Latinate languages, very possible in English, e.g to boldly go.) I like to think that as soon as his kings started to speak English as a mother tongue he dropped Latin and French as fast as he could and is loathe to return.


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